


Honor Among Thieves

by HannahJane



Series: Interpol 'verse [2]
Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Bi-sexual characters, Brief moments of intense suspense, F/F, F/M, I have no idea guys, I just went with it, Interpol AU, Ridiculously romantic drama, Rom-com, Some mild (not descriptive) violence, Still ridiculously sweet, girl!Bilbo, girl!Bofur, girl!Nori, some language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-10 03:43:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannahJane/pseuds/HannahJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nori Ri is working for Interpol.</p>
<p>Nori Ri recovered the Devonshire Emerald.</p>
<p>Nori Ri knows all the tricks of the trade… and then some. (Okay, she invented most of them).</p>
<p>Nori Ri caught The Spider.</p>
<p>Nori Ri will hunt you down.</p>
<p>Nori Ri is working for Interpol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of me giving further thought to my short "What Didn't You Do This Weekend?" and deciding that I was having Thilbo feels and that they needed to be put down on paper as it were. So for your viewing pleasure, I present "Honor Among Thieves", Bilbo and Thorin's story in the Interpol 'verse. Bilbo may have possibly come out a little bit like John Watson from BBC's Sherlock, but I'm oddly okay with that.
> 
> I really hope you enjoy. It was a blast to write and as a warning, this is unbetaed. 
> 
> Drop me a line and let me know what you think!

* * *

**Chapter One- Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend (Except when you can’t fence them)**

 

Nori Ri is working for Interpol.

 

Nori Ri recovered the Devonshire Emerald.

 

Nori Ri knows all the tricks of the trade… and then some. (Okay, she invented most of them).

 

Nori Ri caught The Spider.

 

Nori Ri will hunt you down.

 

Nori Ri is working for Interpol.

 

Despite its loose chaotic half-structure, word spreads quickly through the international community of thieves. It is borne on whispers of fear and betrayal and revenge, sent in anonymous emails and through dead-drops and other absolutely ridiculous methods of communication that only the truly paranoid can come up with.

 

There is at least one homing pigeon involved in this process.

 

By Tuesday everyone in the Western hemisphere knows one of their own has gone to the Dark Side and by Thursday, so does everyone else with the exception of the ones living under rocks (there are three). Safe houses are abandoned en masse and an influx of stolen goods floods the black market. At least one notable art thief has a very public breakdown in a tavern in a German border town, sobbing into his beer about a purloined Matisse.

 

The Queen of Thieves—technically they’re _all_ thieves, but Nori Ri comes with capital letters and a royal title) has been on the right side of the law for less than two weeks when the news finally reaches Murmansk and the little hole-in-the-ground where the Burglar—she might not be on the same level as Nori, but she’s certainly good enough for a capital letter—has taken shelter. The news arrives by way of a handwritten letter on thick creamy parchment covered neatly in beautiful loopy handwriting that spares no detail as to what this means for the future.

 

Bilbo Baggins reads the letter six times and then a seventh for good measure and takes a deep, calming breath before she quickly fences the diamonds in her possession, buys a plane ticket, and lands in New York on a Sunday evening.

 

“Are you out of your damn mind?!” Bilbo yells the second that the door opens. Nori blinks, her wild red mane haphazardly braided on only one side of her head, a tiny Lego Stormtrooper dangling from the twisted strands. “Of all the jobs to have taken when you went straight, Interpol consultant has to be the stupidest!” or… that’s what she _tries_ to say, but Nori’s hand slaps over her mouth after the initial shout and all that comes out is an irritable “mrrmmmmph!”

 

“Shut up!” Nori hisses, leaning close, slate-blue eyes wide with panic, which is ridiculous because this is Nori and Nori doesn’t panic, not even when she gets trapped in the heating duct system of a high-rise for seven hours. Nori’s hand smells like popcorn and peach hand soap and Bilbo has never wanted to bite a human being more in her entire life. “Shut up, shut up, shut _up_ , Bilbo!”

 

“Nori, love? Everything all right?” a male voice booms out of the depths of the loft, very Scottish and very unfamiliar. Nori’s eyes widen even further. Bilbo comes to the realization that somewhere on the flight to New York, she’s lost her world-renowned common sense and thinks maybe she should turn around and go look for it before this whole thing gets messier.

 

“Fine! It’s fine!” Nori yells over her shoulder and shoves Bilbo back through the apartment door, pulling it firmly shut behind them. Barrier firmly between them and whoever is lurking in the living room, Bilbo finally gives into her childish urges and sinks her teeth in.

 

“Ow!” Nori yelps, pulling away with a grimace, scrubbing her hand against the leg of her jeans. “You haven’t grown up at all, have you?” Bilbo fights the urge to straighten her clothing and stand up straighter. It’s hard not to feel like a scolded child when Nori has that ‘I’m very disappointed in you’ look down pat.

 

“Well at least _I’m_ not stabbing my friends in the back,” Bilbo replies, earning herself an exasperated look from Nori who is barefoot, mildly rumpled, and not wearing the pinched expression she’d had the last time Bilbo saw her. To be fair, Nori had been posting bail because Glóin had gotten Bilbo drunk and then let her wander out of the bar without supervision, but she hadn’t needed to be so cranky about it.

 

It occurs to her as she looks at her friend that for once Nori looks legitimately happy and not like she’s putting on a performance. Of course, this realization does nothing to calm the righteous indignation that Bilbo’s been working on since her layover in Stockholm.

 

“And who is _that_?” Bilbo asks, pointing an accusatory finger at the apartment door because this is one of those moments when  “best friend” and “ex-girlfriend” are too closely intertwined. “Because that doesn’t sound like Ori unless puberty’s hit a few years too early.” Nori rolls her eyes, arms folded over her chest, clearly unimpressed with the situation in general.

 

“Jealous, Bilbo?”

 

“No.”

 

“Liar,” Nori’s tone might be considered fond.

 

“Always. Who is he?”

 

“Are you going to behave if I introduce you two?” it’s the answer that Bilbo does not want to hear. She mirrors her best friend’s casual pose with a scowl so as to demonstrate her irritation.

 

“Maybe.” It’s an unsubtle threat and it’s actually recognized as one, which is nice since Nori has a history of underestimating Bilbo’s emotional responses, which has led to some truly spectacular fights.

 

Nori sighs. “Which means no. Damnit, Bil, why do you have to such a brat?” Bilbo shrugs, jet-lagged and feeling betrayed in more ways than one. Nori heaves a sigh.

 

“His name is Dwalin and so help me god, if you’re rude to him, I will throw you out the nearest window without a second thought.” The fierceness in Nori’s tone takes Bilbo aback, her eyes rapidly blinking as realization dawns that this is Serious, with capital letters.

 

The guilt is instantaneous and Bilbo feels like the world’s biggest jerk, looking down at the floor as she searches for the words with which to apologize. She’s got half of one worked out when Nori sighs and throws her arms around Bilbo, squeezing too tight for comfort. It means that Bilbo is mostly forgiven and how did that happen, Bilbo getting in trouble when really Nori is the one who should be in trouble?

 

“Fence those diamonds yet, imp?” Nori asks as she pulls away, managing to look ‘holier-than-thou’ even with her hair styled by drug-crazed squirrels. “That diamond exchange was _not_ your finest hour.” Bilbo opens her mouth to defend herself--it's a long story with a short moral: always keep an eye on the janitor—only to snap it shut when the apartment door opens again.

 

“Bilbo!” the redheaded child launches himself though the door with the force of a jet-propelled rocket. Bilbo only has half a second to react before Ori hits her and she goes down under 78 pounds of big ears and bony knees. Unfortunately for Bilbo’s back, it’s a greeting that she’s quite familiar with and not for the first time in her life, she bemoans her diminutive size.

 

There are two major predicaments with her current situation: (1) Ori's enthusiastic greeting may have broken her spine in four places negating a quick getaway and (2) “ _Bilbo!”_ is not the name on the passport in her carry-on. Her cover has just been blown by a seven year old. This may possibly be more embarrassing than the diamond exchange.

 

As the bald giant who must be Dwalin steps out of the doorway to help her up, a swift kick to the ankle from Nori and the mime of zipped lips lets Bilbo know she’s blundered into something serious. Not that this is the first time in her life she’s gone in blind, but previously, Nori has been the backup instead of the unknown variable that she currently represents.

 

The letter that prompted this entire trip suddenly appears in her mind’s eye:

 

_If there is one person in the world who knows you better than you know yourself, Wilhemina Baggins, it is Nori Ri. How long do you think you can continue in your less than legal occupation when she can all but read your mind?_

 

When they’re finally disentangled, Ori ends up dangling from one of the giant’s massive hands, kicking and screeching about his inherent rights as a human being while Bilbo twists in the grip of the other. Her new birds-eye-view serves to give her a perfect view of the Interpol logo, glaringly white against the black of the t-shirt that Nori's Big Friendly Giant is wearing.

 

Zipped lips indeed.

 


	2. Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don't be jealous, Bilbo." Bo murmurs around a grunt of effort, the clink of glass echoing over the line. "Green isn't a good look for you."

* * *

**Chapter Two- Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves (And Bilbo)**

 

"She's lost her bloody mind." There are four steps from the ensuite bathroom (and tiny window that her hips are _not_ fitting through) to the bed, nine steps from the bed to the door, and six stories from the apartment to the ground. There are four escape routes-- well, six if she wants to get ridiculously physical and take advantage of the windows that makes up an entire wall of the room. Bilbo's good, but she's not crazy _and_ it’s raining. Rain is a variable that inevitably messes everything up, except when she needs to set off a sprinkler.

 

"She's in love, Bilbo. You know? One of those feelings that _isn’t_ paranoia?" There's a whistle echoing around the voice on the other end of the line. Bilbo realizes too late that she may have interrupted something with her call because that sounds suspiciously like a glass cutter whirring along happily, a sound Bilbo is intimately acquainted with.

 

"Where are you?" She asks, flopping onto the ridiculously comfortable bed and staring at the blue ceiling. Someone—Ori, definitely mad little Ori—has put glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling in random patterns that might be constellations, but are more than likely the demented art work of a seven year old with far too much time on his hands. The stars don’t match any of the other décor in the room, all clean simple lines and understated colors which is just so not Nori that Bilbo wonders if her friend had been body-snatched.

 

The real Nori never would have worked with Interpol.

 

"Tokyo; remember that 11th century samurai sword that I’ve been after for forever?" Bilbo hums affirmation, wriggling on the down comforter to ease the ache from Ori's crash-landing on her ribs. She’s still sore from the spill on the recently waxed floor of the diamond exchange job (a painful surprise to say the least) and Nori’s earlier jibe had literally been adding insult to injury.

 

"Well, I had to gave up on getting it by myself; too difficult without an extra pair of hands. Going for an Incan burial mask now." Bo says in her usual effervescently cheerful manner and Bilbo knows the other woman is smiling as she works.

 

Once upon a time, they’d been the Three Musketeers: Nori, Bo and Bilbo, leaving nothing but chaos and befuddled law enforcement agencies in their wake. They’d been an informal team, joining up to pull off impossible heists, their individual skill-sets perfect compliments of each other. Then Dori had had his first heart attack and Ori had come flying into Nori’s life with the force of a 3.6 magnitude earthquake and now…? Now Nori works for the white hats, Bo is pulling jobs that are beneath her, and if Bilbo wants to make a quick getaway, she's going to have to Spider-Man her way down the side of a six story, turn-of-the-century brick apartment building.

 

In the rain.

 

Bilbo huffs. “Nori is ruining my life… again.”

 

“Ahhh,” Bo says as if she’s just become the bloody Oracle of Delphi. “I get it now.”

 

“Get what?”

 

“Don't be jealous, Bilbo." Bo murmurs around a grunt of effort, the clink of glass echoing over the line. "Green isn't a good look for you." The admonishment makes Bilbo thrust her bottom lip out dramatically.

 

“I’m not jealous,” even to Bilbo it sounds petulant. She’s not jealous of the BFG, not really, and anyway, she and Nori haven’t been a Thing in years.

 

“You were together for two years.” Bo reminds Bilbo in _that_ tone and while Bilbo chafes at the gentle scolding, she understands the concern. Bilbo and Nori had been the result of thinking that “being in love” and “loving someone” were the same thing. It had started good and ended bad and there had been a space of about five months where neither of them had spoken to each other.

 

“That was a long time ago,” the old sad feelings that used to come up when the past was discussed don’t rise to the surface. It’s almost as distressing as realizing that her best friend has a whole new life, one that Bilbo might not fit into.

 

“So what’s wrong?” there’s another grunt from Bo and Bilbo assumes she’s slipping through the hole she’d just created, eyes on the prize.

 

“She’s my best friend, Bo… well, one of two,” Bilbo quickly amends before Bo can protest being left out. “And she didn’t talk to me about any of this: Dwalin, Interpol, getting completely out of the life. None of it. Did she call you?” Bo’s silence is enough of an answer.

 

“I’m not jealous. I’m… hurt.” Bilbo says, picking at a loose thread on the embroidered comforter cover. Bo’s sigh says a lot over the distance between them. Bilbo knows she’s got her friend’s full attention when really Bo should be getting the mask and getting the hell out. Her willingness to always lend a hand (or an ear as the case may be) is what makes Bo a great friend and a vaguely scatterbrained thief.

  

“You are an amazingly bad thief.” Bilbo tries for levity and is rewarded by an insolent snort. “Stop sitting around and go get your damn mask before the alarm trips. Judging by my count you’ve probably got five minutes.” _And that’s counting the two minutes you’re gonna need for the safe_ , Bilbo mentally adds because Bo gets tetchy when her work is critiqued.

 

Bo’s reply is lost when Bilbo turns her head away from the phone at a knock on the bedroom door. ‘Come in’ is on the tip of her tongue when the door opens anyway and Ori comes in, trailed by two other boys who have appeared out of nowhere. That's  a disturbing thought: children just popping out of the walls.

She has only a second to blink before all three are on the bed like a little gang in their superhero themed clothing, staring at her with a hungry anticipation that brings Bilbo's aforementioned paranoia boiling to the surface.

 

"Call you back later," Bilbo hangs up without waiting for an answer, dropping the phone onto the bed beside her. Ori takes this as an invitation to climb onto her lap and perch there like a miniature gargoyle with a bowl-cut, staring down at her, his fingers folded under his chin.

 

"What?" Bilbo asks flatly because this is how he tricked her into teaching him how to pickpocket: shock and awe, a grade-schooler's bet friend. Nori still isn’t over that one.

 

“Hi,” his cheeks dimple.

 

“Hello. What do you want?” Bilbo has never claimed to be good with children. Ori has never held it against her.

 

“This is Kíli.” The dark-haired little boy waves at her, the red sleeve of his Flash sweatshirt flopping past his fingertips. Bilbo allows herself to be charmed when he grins, revealing a missing front tooth.

 

“And I’m Fíli _,”_ Bilbo arches an eyebrow, but shakes the hand of the blonde boy who doesn’t even bother pretending he’s not trying to look down the front of her shirt.

 

Bilbo is unsurprised that these are Ori’s friends. Ori taps a hand on her sternum, drawing her attention back to him.

 

“What do you want?”

 

“Were you in London last week?”

 

“No.”

 

“Tibet?”

 

“No.”

 

“Nori says you were,” Bilbo sits up abruptly and sends Ori sprawling over onto Kíli, the two becoming a tangle of Flash-red and Superman-blue.

 

“Your sister’s an idiot.” Bilbo’s been in Murmansk, licking her proverbial wounds and catching up on Downton Abbey.

 

Ori gives her a disgruntled look as he disentangles himself from a still-grinning Kíli. “I know _that_.”

 

Bilbo can’t quite hide her grin at his snark. “What do you want, Coriolanus?” his nose wrinkles at the use of his despised full name, but he remains focused on the end goal.

 

"You have chocolate in your bag." Ori says, turning to eye her carry-on with an intensity that is startling coming from someone under the age of ten. Manic isn’t quite descriptive enough for the longing on his face.

 

Nori has clearly implemented another health food crackdown which she’s done sporadically throughout all the years Bilbo has known her, tossing out anything with empty calories, too much sugar, or unnecessary fat, i.e., anything that tastes good. The one and only time she’d tried that on Bilbo, they’d been living in Paris. The resulting row had ended with Bilbo chucking a priceless scarab pendant into a dumpster and telling Nori to go fish.

 

“How do you know I have chocolate in my bag?”

 

“You _always_ have chocolate in your bag, Bilbo.” Ori says knowingly. Bilbo is simultaneously offended and proud.

 

"Tell me which pocket it's in and you can have it." Ori’s face lights up. Okay, so it's a bit vengeful, but Nori didn't call before she decided to switch sides and Bilbo is still feeling put out. Besides, she’s supposed to be the fun aunt.

 

"Left front pocket, inside zipper." Ori rattles off. "Right next to your lockpicks." Bilbo rolls her eyes but waves in the general direction of her bag.

 

"Have at." The frantic scramble that ensues leaves fresh bruises on her ribcage, but she figures it's worth it, watching the boys tear out of the bedroom each clutching a bar of Swiss chocolate. She lays there, spread eagle on the bed, adrift in more ways than one, staring up at the swirls of stars on the ceiling.

 

Nori's voice suddenly explodes out of the distance, "Bil, you asshole!" And Bilbo regains her equilibrium with a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well? *runs and hides*


	3. Smooth Criminal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner is homemade health-nut pizza and organic green soda and Nori sitting on the BFG’s lap on the loveseat, stealing the pineapple off his pizza and smiling in a way that almost makes Bilbo regret showing up in a snit.

* * *

**Chapter Three- Smooth Criminal (Yeah, okay, so she’s not really that _smooth_ )**

Dinner is homemade health-nut pizza and organic green soda and Nori sitting on the BFG’s lap on the loveseat, stealing the pineapple off his pizza and smiling sappily in a way that almost makes Bilbo regret showing up in a snit. Almost, she thinks, as she watches the BFG brush one of those crazy braids out of Nori’s face, stroking his thumb reverently across her cheekbone. The term ‘love-struck’ was invented for expressions like the ones the pair wears and while Bilbo tries her hardest not to be jealous, its difficult because she can’t remember anyone ever looking at her like that.

 

Not even Nori and that stings a little bit.

 

Nori in love is the polar opposite of Nori in lust and Bilbo thinks as she continues to surreptitiously watch the two of them that this might be the first time she’s ever seen the former from her friend. The difference is marked by the flush in Nori’s cheeks and the happy smile that turns up the corners of her mouth when the BFG steals a kiss, his big hands gentle on her slender body.

 

So yes, it’s very sweet and adorable and a thousand other adjectives until one takes into account the fact that the seating arrangement leaves Bilbo sitting on the couch with the prepubescent horde. It’s like being sent to the kids table at Thanksgiving and Bilbo has found herself there plenty of times over the years, wilting under the quelling Stare Of Disappointment from her father.

 

Less than subtle little fingers creep across her thigh, headed for her food for the eighth time in ten minutes. Without looking away from the TV where Scooby Doo and Shaggy are frantically fleeing the gardener in a white sheet, Bilbo gently captures Kíli’s thin wrist, directing it back to his own plate where a slice of pizza as big as his head sits uneaten. He pouts dramatically, but within seconds his hand is inching back towards her plate, drawn by the allure of food that isn't his.

 

Knowing she’s fighting a losing battle, Bilbo just hands him the piece of pepperoni that he’s after because she’s getting distracted by what’s happening on her left, namely Fíli rubbing his cheek against her arm as an alternative to using his hand to scratch the itch on his face. He has a slice of pizza in each hand: Canadian bacon and pineapple in one, pepperoni in the other and he’s alternating between the two, eyes glued to the TV screen as he chews. The glare she shoots him when he rubs his cheek on her arm again completely misses the mark. Sometimes she forgets that children aren't actually little grown ups and that they require stronger than normal social cues.

 

Ori refused to eat the pizza because he saw Nori putting oregano in the sauce and has apparently entered a phase where he won’t eat green food, which means he sits between her feet eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with the crusts cut off. The green apple soda seems to be acceptable to his discerning palette, however, considering he’s had all of his and most of Bilbo’s, the level in her glass dropping every time she turns to rescue her plate from Kíli’s questing fingers. It isn’t until they dissolve into giggles that she realizes that they’re in cahoots. Nori and the BFG are in their own little oblivious world and Bilbo will aid and abet the misbehavior of small children so long as she gets to at least eat the mushrooms off the pizza.

 

(She does since none of the Terrible Trio will touch them and in fact take great joy in feeding them to her).

 

“Why no green food?” Bilbo asks, accepting a proffered olive from Kíli who has picked anything that might constitute a vegetable off his newly acquired slice of pizza and has separated them into neat little piles. She really has absolutely no idea why the hell Nori is even bothering with this health-food kick.

 

“I don’t trust it.” Ori replies seriously, holding his crustless sandwich like a chipmunk, his head tilted back to stare up at her. Bilbo can’t find any logical reason to argue against that and gives him the rest of her soda.

 

Everything is going swimmingly even including the moment when Ori laughs while he’s taking a drink, chokes, and coughs so hard that he crop-dusts half the room with spit and carbonated water. Bilbo finds that if she thinks hard enough about orange jumpsuits and an eight by ten cell that she can make eye contact with the BFG and engage him in easy conversation that features not a lick of truth about her actual occupation or identity. She's just starting to relax, which is of course naturally when it all goes to shit and in a truly tremendous fashion.

 

There’s the sound of a key in the lock and the apartment door opens and closes with a sharp click. Nori sits up ramrod straight in the BFG’s lap, her eyes going wide and Bilbo’s internal alarms begin to blare. There’s the sound of boots being kicked off with a muffled thump and then without warning, Bilbo’s own personal version of hell strides into the vast openness of the main room in his stocking feet, shaking water droplets from his dark hair. So great are the cries of greeting from the three boys that Bilbo’s inadvertent squeak of terror is completely drowned out as the boys launch themselves off the couch and swarm the new arrival.

 

To the boys, “Dad” is the man who drops to one knee and sweeps all three of them into a massive bear hug with exaggerated growling noises and tickling fingers of death.

 

To Bilbo, Agent Thorin Durin is the man who has been one step behind her for the last year, all across Europe and Asia and one very memorable near miss in Australia. She seriously doubts that if he arrests her that there will be “tickle fingers of death” involved. They know each other on a professional level--newspaper articles and press conferences and missing surveillance footage and empty display cases--and to be completely honest, Bilbo is not prepared to take their relationship to the next level just yet.

 

“Hey, I thought you weren’t back in town until tomorrow,” the BFG says with a grin, separating from Nori only the minimum amount required to have a conversation with another human being. Bilbo is frozen on the couch, trying not to hyperventilate, reminding herself that she has the Ring and that he can’t possibly know who she because he’s never actually seen her.

 

“Lost the trail after Istanbul so I thought I’d come home early.” Curious but piercing blue eyes lift from perusing a scratch on Kíli’s knee, accompanied by a warm smile and Bilbo wills herself to fade into the couch because that’s her, he’s talking about her and the painting that had gone missing from a bank manager’s office.

 

“Eh, you’ll catch up to him. The Burglar isn’t as smart as he thinks he is.” Dwalin says with a stretch and the new arrival shrugs.  The phrase ‘brutally handsome’ didn’t make sense until she saw Thorin Durin smile (whenever she sees him on TV, it’s usually after she’s stolen something and he always looks like he’s grinding his teeth). In person, the man looks like he’s Mr. July from one of those military beefcake calendars that always do the rounds at Christmas, his gray-shot beard neatly trimmed, teeth glistening white, eyes crinkling at the corners. She refuses to acknowledge the eye-catching way that his black polo-shirt stretches beautifully across the breadth of his powerful shoulders. That would be a ridiculous thing to note about her Nemesis.

 

Archenemy?

 

Adversary?

 

Opponent? 

 

Thorin laughs at something Ori says and Bilbo blinks, uncomfortably aware that the sound feels like it's vibrating throughout her entire body, warm and inviting.

 

Nemesis. Definitely nemesis. 

 

Nori murmurs something to the BFG on the edge of Bilbo’s peripheral vision, the light of realization dawning on her face as she makes eye contact with Bilbo and takes in the deer-in-the-headlights posture. It’s just really Bilbo’s luck that her best friend is on a first name basis with the Enemy.

 

“Oh, that’s right. You haven’t met Bilbo yet.” The BFG gestures between them. “Thorin, this is Nori’s best friend, Bilbo. Bilbo, this is my partner, Thorin.”

 

The survival instincts that have been honed to a lethal edge roll over and surrender as those blue eyes settle on her and the only thing Bilbo can muster up any semblance of control to do is a wave like she’s having a stroke. She might be—it definitely feels like it—but it seems to her that sticking out her tongue in order to check might send the wrong message. One of Thorin’s dark eyebrows rises in response to her stunning display of awkward (or maybe it’s her ink-stained jeans, _Póg mo thóin_ t-shirt and untamed brown curls) but she’s rescued from having to make polite small-talk by Fíli launching himself onto his father’s back, knocking the man over onto the floor. As the Interpol agent disappears under an avalanche of small children, Nori untangles herself from the BFG and asks Bilbo if she’d liked to help put together the ice cream sundaes in a way that suggests it's not really an invitation and definitely more of an order.

 

Bilbo almost trips over her own feet in her rush to get to the kitchen and away from the sharp blue eyes that she can feel on her back as she makes her clumsy exit. Unfortunately, the situation in the kitchen isn’t any more friendly than the one in the living room and not just because “ice cream sundaes” means coconut ice cream, organic fruit, and not an ounce of chocolate in sight.

 

“Please, tell me that you’re kidding. Please, please tell me that you are not the one he’s been chasing all over God’s green creation for the last five months.” Nori all but growls, arms braced on the kitchen island, glaring daggers as Bilbo stumbles into the kitchen, feeling a little like she’s just been run over by a truck, adrenaline still racing through her system. There’s a steel cable of tension between Nori’s shoulders, her jaw clenched tight and ‘Upset-Homemaker Nori’ is not unlike ‘Botched-Job Nori.’

 

“I’d like to,” Bilbo says, again willfully resisting the urge to nervously crack her knuckles under the power of Nori’s anger. “Believe me, I would _really_ really like to be able to tell you that.” Those thunderstorm gray eyes narrow to near slits, accusing and irritated and maybe a little proud all at the same time as the implications of Bilbo’s words settle around the kitchen.

 

“ _You_ stole that Monet?” Nori whisper-shouts, mouth set in scowl #15 (You didn't tell me!), one that Bilbo is acquainted with. “ _You’re_ the Burglar!? I put Thorin on Azog’s trail for that. It wasn’t your usual…” she stops abruptly, shaking her head like she’s already in too deep and is trying to keep from sinking further into this world that she used to be such a central part of. The conflict on her face hits Bilbo like a punch to the gut, the realization that this is just as hard for her ex as it is for her.

 

Nori lifts her head, scowl shifting to #28 (You will pay). “Where is it, Sticky Fingers?”

 

“I sold it to someone with a big bank account and a very loose moral code.” Bilbo admits under the weight of the guilt until she remembers she has her own problems and then she squares her shoulders with her own glare. “Wait a minute. Why are you yelling at _me_? You’re the one with the bloody head of the Special Recovery Unit in your living room!” that part is a little closer to a shout than a whisper. Bilbo clenches her jaw tightly to keep from losing it altogether because it’s not entirely… no, it’s _totally_ Nori’s fault.

 

“He has been hunting me for months! Literally! _Hunting_ me. A visual representation of this would involve me in bunny ears and him dressed like Elmer friggin' Fudd!” The stress of the situation makes her stomach knot uncomfortably under the weight of homemade health-nut pizza and organic soda.

 

“It’s his job! And besides, you heard him, he wasn’t supposed to be back so soon and I was gonna kick you out tomorrow anyway.” Nori snaps as if that helps and stomps over to the huge fridge, yanking out two containers of coconut ice cream and slamming them down on the marble countertop.

 

Bilbo pinches the bridge of her nose, trying to alleviate some of the pressure forming behind her eyes. “Oh well, I'm glad you had this all worked out ahead of time. I think I’m going to be sick.” She mumbles, stomach still twisting. When she looks up again, Nori at least has the good grace to look a little ashamed of herself. “He’s Dwalin’s partner, Bilbo and he's Fíli and Kíli’s father.”

 

Bilbo threw her arms up. Oh, well that was just fantastic! Bilbo's been sharing her favorite chocolate with the spawn of the Enemy. It’s just something else to add to the growing list of things to be irritated about.

 

“And what? You just forgot to mention that? If I’d known you were best mates with the guy who’s been hunting me down like an antelope on the savannah, I would have steered clear of New York entirely.” Bilbo snaps, right hand jittering at her side in a rare display of nerves. Nori continues to stomp around the kitchen, grabbing ingredients and hurling them onto the island countertop, muttering under her breath. Bilbo’s ire continues to rise despite her best attempts to remain calm. If anyone deserves to be angry, it’s her.

 

Then something occurs and she stops.

 

“Wait!” Nori pauses, a stack of bowls in her hands, confusion overriding the anger. Bilbo points an accusing finger.

 

“You thought Azog stole that Monet?” she asks incredulously. That had been a beautiful job, stylish and masterful all at once, the culmination of two months surveillance and prepwork.

 

“You don’t usually use the heating ducts!” Nori says and slams the bowls down.

 

“I’m changing it up!”

 

“Clearly.” Nori bites the word off.

 

“Oh, well, I’m sorry that I didn’t run it by you first!” Bilbo hisses, snatching up one of the ice cream scoops and the tub of chocolate coconut abomination, glancing over her shoulder at the shrieks of laughter coming from the living room. “How inconsiderate of me to not let my best friend know what I was _doing_.” Nori stops in the middle of sundae prep, expression bordering on murderous, jaw clenched.

 

“I will gut you, Wilhemina Baggins.” To demonstrate her willingness, the redhead waves the strawberry stained knife in her hand threateningly. Bilbo rolls her eyes, brandishing her ice cream scoop.

“Bring it on, _Noreen_.”

 

Nori’s eyes narrow.

 

oOo

 

No one says anything about the smears of chocolate and strawberry across Nori’s clothing or the way that Bilbo limps slightly when they bring the bowls of not-real dessert back into the living room, but Bilbo is very much aware of Thorin's gaze on her for the rest of the night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off: thank you so much to Thorinsmut, Blue_Sparkle, and riknata for your kind words about my first ever full-length Hobbit piece. This chapter's for you guys!
> 
> Secondly: I have this entire head cannon involving Nori and Bilbo about how they met and their relationship and everything and hope that I can work some of it into this story. Also Thorin's title as Kíli and Fíli's father was based on my head cannon that in the Interpol 'verse, the boys have been raised by Thorin for so long enough that he's ceased to be 'Uncle' and is just 'Dad' now. Let me know what you think!


	4. Black and Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if the simple act of being in the presence of top-level Interpol operatives has tainted her, Bilbo’s professional reputation takes a serious beating over the next four months.

* * *

**Black and Gold (And a little black and blue)**

Bilbo ends up reading four bedtime stories. It should have been three, but Kíli does this thing where his lower lip wobbles and his dark eyelashes frame his puppy dog eyes perfectly and Bilbo is not made of stone no matter what Nori says. When the last “Goodnight Moon” has been uttered, she kisses three foreheads, tucks in three blankets, and slinks off to her room, claiming jetlag when Nori tries to get her to join everyone in the living room for beer and “conversation.”

 

Bilbo stares blindly up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling for almost an hour in a near panic before she gives up and reaches for her phone. Her father is less than sympathetic to her plight, but that is probably because she wakes him from his afternoon nap.

 

“I warned you,” he says in that infuriatingly smug way of his.

 

“No, _you_ set me up.” Bilbo argues, flipping the Ring over and over in her hand, the familiar weight of the USB drive her only comfort. She’s going to have to get into the Department of Transportation so she can get erase her presence in New York and that is another headache that she just doesn’t need right now. “You knew I’d storm in guns blazing because it’s Nori and you were hoping I’d talk some sense into her.”

 

“Did I?” the way he says it allows Bilbo to perfectly picture the twinkle in his warm blue eyes.

 

“Don’t play games with me, old man.” She scows and hopes he’ll pick it up in her tone. “I am well aware what your intentions were with that letter.”

 

“And how is dear sweet Nori?” Gandalf asks as if he is as pure as the driven snow. “Saruman still hasn’t forgiven her for abandoning her vocational calling, you know.”

 

“She’s working a job that gives her time to chaperone fieldtrips at Ori’s school and she’s shacking up with the Jolly Green Giant. Saruman’s disapproval isn’t even registering, trust me.” Bilbo stares morosely out the window at the still falling rain. Not that she’s thinking about using the window to escape, but it’s always nice to have that option available.

 

“How… domestic of her.” Gandalf’s tone suggests his own kind of disapproval and it’s a direct window to Bilbo’s childhood. The man had constantly vacillated between ‘legendary art thief’ and ‘father’, sometimes so quickly that Bilbo had whiplash on more than one occasion. There is a reason she’s never called him ‘Dad’ or ‘Father’ or anything more than his first name because that is not the way it works in their relationship.

 

“She did it for Ori, Gandalf. Just like you did for me.” She reminds him gently, going back to bed and curling up beneath the blankets, tugging them up under her chin, clutching the Ring tightly in her hand. Never has she longed for her tiny little Murmansk apartment more than now, two doors down from a man who would gladly stick her in a very dark hole for a very long time.

 

“I did no such thing,” he protests without any heat. “I merely took a fourteen year vacation during which you happened to live with me.” Bilbo hmms over the phone, not willing to spoil his carefully fabricated view of reality with something like the truth.

 

“Oh and I picked up the most splendid Lalaounis piece the other day. Ruby bracelet. Absolutely stunning.” Bilbo smiles despite herself, shaking her head at the irascibility of the older thief.

 

“Goodnight, Gandalf,” she says, unable to keep the laughter out of her voice. Some of the tension is gone, dissipated under the familiar voice of her father and the knowledge that she will be slipping out of New York in the morning, back to her European hideout and the anonymity of being the Burglar.

 

“Good afternoon, my dear. Sleep well, little one.” And she does, for about an hour until she has a dream about trying to steal the Hope Diamond and getting caught in a pool of caramel and then being arrested by Dwalin and Thorin dressed like Keystone Cops.

 

She spends the next three hours staring at the stars on the ceiling and wondering when her life had turned into a Pink Panther movie.

 

oOo

 

_Sorry, I have to take off earlier than I expected. Business emergency. Love, Bilbo_

 

It’s not a total lie, Bilbo muses as she props the note against the coffeemaker, which is the first place Nori will stumble when she crawls out of bed in an hour. It _is_ a business emergency: if Interpol arrest her, it’ll be an emergency and she highly doubts Nori will be as willing to break her out as she has been last time. This way no one gets hurt (or arrested) and she can swing by the DOT on her way to the airport. She turns to leave and has a minor heart attack at the sight of the dark-haired man leaning in the kitchen doorway.

 

“God! Don’t _do that_!” Bilbo yelps, hand pressed to her chest, heart pounding with adrenaline and genuine fear. One of Thorin’s dark eyebrows rises in a disbelieving arch as his blue gaze lazily peruses the length of her body in a way that seems a little forward given that it’s not even 6 am yet.

 

Bilbo glances down at the business suit that she’s wearing for not entirely legal purposes and abruptly wishes she were wearing something less conspicuous… And longer, she tugs a little at the hem of the skirt that didn’t seem so short when she put it on a half hour ago.

 

“Sorry; I thought you heard me come in.” Thorin says in a voice that rumbles out of his chest. He looks ridiculously handsome even in workout clothing, sweat-dampened t-shirt clinging to broad shoulders and a chiseled chest, his running shorts showing off powerful legs. No one should look that good after working out. _No one._ Even Beauty Queen Nori looks like roadkill when she staggers in from one of her masochistic runs.

 

Bilbo doesn’t run on principle, namely the principle that if no one’s chasing her, why run? Sauntering is really where it’s at and if she’s in a particularly good mood, maybe sashaying.

 

“Everyone in this house is a bloody ninja,” Bilbo mutters before she can stop herself. She gets another eyebrow lift at that, but it’s not the same eyebrow lift as the one Fíli had gotten the night before when he announced his intentions to drop out of fourth grade and become a professional mime so she figures she’s somewhat safe.

 

“Are you leaving already?” his tone is casual, but those eyes are watching her intently and alarms go off in Bilbo’s head like the Bells of Notre Dame. She hates questions, almost as much as she hates being trapped in an apartment with two and a half Interpol agents.

 

“Work emergency,” Bilbo says just as casually even as her brain begins to form escape routes based on the kitchen floor plan. There are sadly not a lot of them, not with Thorin in the doorway like that and her wearing a short skirt and heels and just because she can’t see the handcuffs don’t mean they aren’t lurking around a corner somewhere.

 

“What is it that you do again?” Thorin pushes off the doorjamb with his shoulder and strides into the kitchen. Rather than dance out of his reach like she wants too—because that won’t be suspicious _at all_ —Bilbo simply holds very, very still as he walks behind her, opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water. Up close, his eyes are even bluer and she can better see the silver streaks in his short beard, but not his close-cropped hair. This information is in no way helpful to any portion of her escape plans.

 

All her well-thought out alibis fly right out of her brain at his close proximity. “Library, librarian. I work in a library.” Not entirely untrue either, she’s stolen plenty of things from libraries.

 

“What exactly constitutes an emergency in a library?” he asks, amused. Bilbo watches his long fingers flex around the bottle, the plastic crinkling in his grip and has the vague notion that if he finds out who she really is, that will probably be what it looks like when he wrings her neck.

 

“Flood.” She blurts out when she realizes that she’s been staring at his large hands rather than talking and then mentally slaps herself in the forehead. “Um, water damage from a flood.” If there were an award for disbelieving looks, the man in front of her would win first prize.

 

“A flood.” Thorin repeats in a manner that suggests he thinks she might be cracked. “A flood where?”

 

“In the library?” Bilbo smiles weakly and tugs at her too-short skirt again. She’s saved from further interrogation by the pitter-patter of bare feet on the tile floor.

 

“Da’?” Kíli mumbles from the doorway, the five year old stumbling into the kitchen rubbing sleepily at his eyes with little fists. In a split second it’s as if Bilbo no longer exists, Thorin’s attention locked onto his son and whatever has caused him to be up and out of bed so early.

 

“Had a bad dream.” Kíli breathes around a yawn as Thorin easily lifts him, patting down the boy’s wild dark curls. Bilbo sidles backwards out of the kitchen—not an easy task in heels—while Thorin is distracted and tries not to think about differences between the man getting his son a drink of water and the man who spends hours trying to throw her in jail.

 

The Department of Transportation turns out to be fine. Bilbo isn’t a catwalk model, but her skirt is short enough and her heels are high enough and she has over twenty years experience manipulating people.  She opens one more button on her blouse and then it’s the server room and the Ring is in place and Bilbo’s presence in New York is nothing more than a memory.

 

Her flight from La Guardia leaves at nine with no real purpose other than ending up somewhere that isn’t New York. Bilbo—now dressed comfortably in jeans and one of Bo’s old AC/DC t-shirts—uses her small size to her advantage and curls up in her window seat, deleting the three voicemails and eleven texts from Nori without checking them. She falls asleep over the Atlantic, secure in the knowledge that Thorin Durin and his handcuffs and rumbling voice are miles behind her.

 

Except that he’s not.

 

Not really.

 

oOo

 

As if the simple act of being in the presence of top-level Interpol operatives has tainted her, Bilbo’s professional reputation takes a serious beating over the next four months.

 

The Palace of Versailles sees the loss of a personally customized glasscutter and very nearly her left hand when the window ledge she is perched on crumbles without warning. Bilbo does not recover her prize—a handwritten letter from Louis XV displayed under the wrong kind of light— _and_ she loses an expensive part of equipment and wrenches her shoulder out of the socket.

 

_How the hell did you get a diamond tip on that thing, Bee-Bo? – NR_

 

That Nori has started texting regularly after a heist does not help matters at all and the accompanying photo of the demolished glasscutter make Bilbo grind her teeth. These texts are interspersed with photos of other crime scenes that Bilbo has _not_ been a part of, usually captioned ‘How would you have done this?’ as well as helpful (read: not very) hints as to what Bilbo can do next time to keep some semblance of dignity around her criminal persona.

 

Bilbo has changed her number four times.

 

She suspects Gandalf is aiding and abetting Nori’s antics.

 

The heist in Morocco is only slightly better than Versailles in that Bilbo does not end up losing any gear and she actually gets her prize. The only problem is that Tauriel shows up halfway through the job and almost manages to swipe the platinum bracelet from under Bilbo’s nose. There is a bit of a scramble on an exposed ceiling beam that’s not quite wide enough for either of their feet and Bilbo has never been happier for her ridiculously good balance. In the end, Bilbo gets the bracelet and punched in the face twice, but Tauriel gets picked up two days later by the _Berliner polizei_ and Bilbo figures a black eye is better than handcuffs.

 

_Tauriel was NOT my doing, but you can say thank you anyway – NR_

As if to add insult to injury—sore wrist, fading black eye, badly bruised ego—Thorin shows up in Lisbon and arrests Bilbo’s favorite heavy-metals fence, a troll of a human being named Tom who is very good at finding shiny items brand new owners. Bilbo rounds the corner of the cigar shop in her favorite green sundress and sun-hat, bracelet carefully tucked in the corner of her oversized purse and comes to a dead stop at the sight of police vehicles with flashing lights and Tom being led from his shop by a grim-faced Thorin. She flees back to Murmansk like a puppy with its tail between its legs and refuses to answer her phone for three days.

 

_Was Tom your doing? – BB_

_No, that was all Thorin. He’s pretty sure he almost got you. He did, didn’t he? – NR_

_Shut up – BB_

 

Four more important points of contact—all fences and hackers known to be Burglar-friendly—go down like dominos in the following week and Bilbo breaks a Waterford crystal pitcher in a fit of pique when she hears the news. Sweeping up the shards, she glares at her open laptop on the kitchen table, the BBC News article about Agent Thorin Durin breaking up an international smuggling ring, complete with color pictures.

 

Bilbo plans meticulously after Versailles and Morocco and Lisbon and is pleasantly surprised when the third heist in the middle of Venice goes off without a hitch. She can’t help a little extra flourish before she slides out through the unlocked bathroom window.

 

Bilbo takes no small amount of pleasure in kicking back in her 5-star hotel room, twirling the Ring between her fingers, the stolen item in question on the pillow beside her. She watches Thorin grind his teeth through the press conference about how a very small but Very Important statuette disappeared from the Mayor’s mansion with no signs of a break-in and no suspects. It is all around a satisfying experience.

 

_Thorin put his fist through the wall when he found your “present” – NR_

_Attached: image342.jpg._ A picture arrives not soon after: Thorin unaware of the picture taker as he sits in blandly anonymous conference room, glaring at the Cheshire cat figure that Bilbo left in place of her score. True to Nori’s statement, his fist is wrapped in white medical gauze. It’s difficult not to be smug.

 

Bilbo sets the picture as her phone background and tells herself it’s only because it’s nice to win one for once. Herself doesn’t believe it either, but admits it’s nice to pretend to believe that. It is this cockiness that makes Bilbo waltz right off a plane in Los Angeles with a lackadaisical air, drinking in the sunshine and smog and sheer presence of 4 million people and not paying attention to her surroundings in the least. Maybe that’s how she misses the beady half-crazed eyes that follow her from the terminal to a waiting taxi.

 

It’s all right. There’s plenty of time for regrets later.

 

Gollum cuts her lead line in Los Angeles and sends Bilbo plummeting through a skylight onto the marble floor below while the other thief makes off with a beautiful handcrafted Stradivarius. She wakes up in an ocean of broken glass, red and blue lights bouncing off the walls around her and it is only sheer willpower that enables Bilbo to stagger to her feet and stumble out of the museum’s emergency exit. Bleeding profusely and only half-aware of her surroundings, Bilbo is easily captured by the LAPD only to pass out in the back of an unmarked police car seconds later.

 

It’s a clusterfuck of monumental proportions.

 

Luckily, the saying ‘friends in high places’ is applicable even when one is unconscious. Detective Dáin Ironfoot is more than willing to put ‘mugging victim’ and ‘Jane Doe’ in the appropriate spaces on the hospital forms, “losing her” just as easily as he hands over her bag of personal items and shoves her out the back door of the hospital into the waiting arms of the chauffeur. Detective Ironfoot has designs on controlling the majority of criminal enterprises in the greater Los Angeles area and Bilbo (or rather the man paying for Bilbo’s escape) is simply another favor to be cashed in at a later date.

 

_Bilbo, tell me you’re okay. They found so much blood – NR_

_Thorin thinks you crawled off somewhere to die. He’s actually worried – NR_

_Bilbo, please don’t be dead – NR_

_Bilbo? – NR_

Her injuries are mostly untreated so when the Town Car pulls up to the safe house, Bilbo hobbles into the house, stripping as she goes until she’s in front of the full-length mirror in the master bath. Carefully—because she’s still dizzy enough to merit holding onto the wall so she doesn’t fall over—Bilbo catalogues her injuries: cuts everywhere, some big, some small; a formerly dislocated shoulder that was put back in the socket by a brute of a nurse; two cracked ribs wrapped by the same nurse; and the bone-deep throb that accompanies a soft body impacting a hard surface. She cleans up the best she can by herself and then collapses onto the unfamiliar bed, dead on her feet from blood loss and fading adrenaline.

 

Bilbo wakes what feels like less than two minutes later to someone kicking her foot in a way that sends pain skittering across all her nerve endings. In agony and still exhausted, she drags her face out of the goose down pillows and finds Bo standing next to the bed, her usually smiling face screwed into an angry scowl, phone pressed to her ear as she kicks Bilbo’s foot again.

 

“Yeah, she’s alive.” Bo says in a tone that suggests maybe it would be better if Bilbo _wasn’t_. Bilbo groans and tries to burrow back under the covers only to have the blankets ripped away and the phone shoved in her face. Bilbo can hear yelling through the tiny speaker and when the imploring puppy eyes don’t work on Bo, she sighs and takes the device.

 

“Hi, Nori.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You could have warned me she was so mad.” Bilbo says, perched gingerly on the edge of the tub while Bo pulls glass shards out of places that she hadn’t been able to reach by herself. The tweezers graze the inside of one particularly tender gash sharply and Bilbo hisses in pain.

 

“We thought you were dead.” Bo says flatly, unapologetic about her rough handling. Her movements are mechanical and precise as she drops the tweezers onto the counter alongside the bloody shards pulled from Bilbo’s skin and reaches for the antibacterial ointment that hurts nearly as much as the tweezers. Or maybe it’s just the less than gentle way that Bo’s applying it.

 

“I don’t- I’m sorry. I dropped my phone somewhere. Maybe when I fell. I didn’t- _I’m sorry_.” Bilbo whispers the last part because the reality of the situation is nothing short of a near death experience. She doesn’t really remember anything after the explosion of pain after her body crashed through the glass, after the marble floor had stopped her descent with bone-jarring abruptness. She didn’t remember stumbling to her feet or out of the museum or into the arms of Detective Ironfoot. Truthfully, all she remembers is waking up, disoriented in the hospital bed, handcuffed to the railing with Dáin Ironfoot looming over her, mumbling something about arrangements and favors owed. Even the trip from the hospital to the safe house is a blur in her memory banks.

 

Except for the pain. She remembers the pain.

 

“I’m sorry, Bo,” Bilbo tries again. Bo doesn’t respond, but the tweezers don’t dig into Bilbo’s body with intent anymore and she orders Bilbo’s favorite from the Greek place down the street, and later when Bilbo’s tucked in with fresh sheets and two white pills from the magic bottle on the bedside table, Bo curls protectively around Bilbo and Bilbo knows this means she’s really saying, “I’m sorry, you scared me, I’m sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Sorry for not posting as quickly as I could have, but midterms are a nightmare! Thank you all for your kudos and kind words!


	5. Ashes and Pearls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bo stays in Los Angeles until Bilbo stops wobbling every time she stands up, until her skin starts to knit together again, and she looks less like death warmed over.
> 
> It takes two months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: THIS IS MY REQUISITE SAD CHAPTER SO THAT EVERYTHING CAN BE SUNSHINE AND LOLLIPOPS LATER! YOU HAVE BEEN warned. Have a nice day! I hope to have a happy chapter up by the weekend or end of the weekend!

* * *

**Chapter Five- Ashes and Pearls (Some things do survive the flames)**

Bo stays in Los Angeles until Bilbo stops wobbling every time she stands up, until her skin starts to knit together again, and she looks less like death warmed over.

 

It takes two months.

 

The aches and pains are still there when Bilbo boards her flight for Monaco, but she forgets it all later as she inhales the familiar scent of pipe tobacco and chamomile from her father’s cardigan in the airport terminal. In a split second, she’s ten years old again, safe in the shelter of his arms and Bilbo releases the breath that she’s been holding since she woke up in that LA hospital. Gandalf makes shrimp fettuccine for dinner and plays 1952 recording of Maria Callas singing _Norma_ at Covent Garden and Bilbo falls asleep on Egyptian cotton sheets to the sounds of her childhood.

 

There are fresh-baked scones and crispy bacon in the morning and a sour-faced Saruman, but one cancels out the other and she ignores the not so thinly-veiled verbal jabs at Nori’s life choices in favor of blueberries and an unhealthy amount of bacon. Then Saruman gets a pensive expression on his face and based on the way that Gandalf jumps, kicks him under the table.

 

“What?” Bilbo asks, poking at a loose blueberry that rolls across her plate. She’s pleasantly stuffed and not in the mood for the games of intentionally vague old men whose paranoia levels  have long surpassed ‘healthy’. Gandalf turns a baleful stare on Saruman who puffs aggressively on his pipe and Bilbo rolls her eyes at the battle of wills between the two old friends. She knocks on the table to get their attention, waving away the cloud of smoke that assaults her as both men turn in unison.

 

“There are… rumors.” Gandalf begins, diplomatic for once in his life and that in and of itself makes Bilbo nervous because her father is not timid when it comes to sharing his thoughts. Saruman simply puffs on his pipe, gazing out the kitchen window, his gaze distant.

 

“Rumors about what, Gandalf?” the loose blueberry is abandoned as Bilbo focuses on the man across the table. When no answer is forthcoming, she pushes her chair back with a screech of wood on tile and stands. Before she can swan out of the kitchen with well-practiced petulance (a favorite trick from her teenage years when her tolerance for drama was considerably higher), Saruman abruptly turns from the window and stabs the stem of his pipe at her.

 

“That you are aiding Nori Ri in her narrow-minded vendetta to bring all of us down. That you now work for Interpol.” Bilbo’s jaw flops open in surprise and she turns to her father, expecting a full-throated defense of his non-biological offspring. She does _not_ want to see the speculative expression on his face, but it’s there. Hurt boils over into anger and Bilbo clenches her fists at her sides, wanting to break something and stomp her feet.

 

“Maybe you’ve forgotten, Saruman, but Nori Ri does not need my help to quote “bring you down”. _You’re_ the one who trained her to be the best, so you of all people should know that. And you,” she turns on her father, more hurt than angry and only capable of displaying one emotion at the moment. “I can’t believe you think I would do something like that.” Without waiting for a reply, she flees the kitchen, wanting to cry and unwilling to give anyone the satisfaction.

 

There is no dinner that night and the house is eerily silent as Bilbo lies in bed and stares up at the ceiling, unable to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo lands in New Orleans two days later and ignores Bombur’s raised eyebrows when she takes up residence in the corner of his kitchen with a Nicholas Sparks novel and a jug of sweet tea and doesn’t move for three days.

 

On the fourth day Bombur all but throws Bilbo out the door with a canvas tote, a list of things to be purchased, and strict orders not to come back before the stars are out because this is New Orleans and she's not seeing anything sitting next to the prep table. It's a set-up anyway. Bo is waiting just outside the front door, looking beautiful and airy in a green dress, her hair spilling over her shoulders in an ebony waterfall. Bombur gives Bilbo a smug smile before firmly shutting the door in her face.

 

“Bombur says you’re eating his cornbread faster than he can make it,” is all that is given as an explanation. Bilbo huffs without any real resentment and lets herself be drawn into the arms of her second oldest friend, taking a deep breath of Bo’s comforting scent, magnolia and metal shavings. Bo’s chin rests atop Bilbo’s messy curls as they stand there in the morning sunshine, ignoring the obvious interest of the two deliverymen unloading crates of fresh produce behind the restaurant. Bo pulls back, laces their fingers together and pulls her down the street, that old familiar grin stretched across her face.

 

With the sun warming her shoulders, the flowers in full bloom filling the air with intoxicating scents, and far more sweet tea and mint juleps than are absolutely necessary, Bilbo spends the day traipsing after Bo through open-air markets, tiny little herb shops tucked into narrow streets, and more than one charming old bookstore where she sorts through leather bound books that smell like history. By the time the stars are out, Bilbo is seated in the corner of a candlelit restaurant, bulging tote bag on the floor beside her, watching Bo flirt outrageously with the bartender, whiskey glass dangling from her fingertips. Tucked in the pocket of her capris, Bilbo’s phone buzzes insistently.

 

“Tell me you’re not in Chicago. Please, please, please tell me you’re not in Chicago.” Bilbo glances around the crowded restaurant for a glimpse of tousled red hair, just in case. It’s not the strangest call she’s gotten lately, not since Gloín has discovered that if he pokes the buttons on his phone while he’s drinking, then other people can enjoy his intoxicated state as well.

 

“I’m not in Chicago,” Bilbo says with an eye roll, adjusting the phone against her ear and reaching for another sugar-dusted beignet. She’s been eating her feelings lately—Bo’s words, not hers—and while her pocketbook might not complain, the waistband of her jeans is starting too.

 

The argument with her father still stings fresh in her memory and Bilbo finds herself reaching for sweet things to soothe the ache. The wounds from Gollum are now shiny pink scars across her skin and they still twinge when she moves too quickly. The pain in her shoulder is manageable with a daily handful of Ibuprofen, but Bilbo knows it’ll be a while before she can return to the physically demanding life of a professional thief. The quickest she’s moved lately is to reach for one of Bombur’s world famous sweet corn muffins fresh from the oven.

 

“Okay,” Nori heaves a sigh, traffic noises intruding on her voice. “And you haven’t been _in_ Chicago…” she trails off, fishing for either denial or confirmation. Bilbo licks the powdered sugar off her fingers, drawing it out long enough to make Nori twitchy which admittedly isn't hard.

 

“Nori, I’ve barely been off the couch in three months. What makes you think I’m pulling a _heist in Chicago_?” she finally says, hissing the last part, reaching for a napkin. Bo is now nearly perched atop the bar, leaning on her elbows to speak to the bartender, the silver ring through his lip glinting in the light. The clean-shaven blonde man is no Thorin Oakenshield, but Bilbo will give it to her friend on aesthetic points because Bartender Boy is pretty.

 

Then Bilbo promptly feels guilty for thinking lustful thoughts about the man who has sworn to see her in handcuffs and not in the fun way.

 

“Where’s Bo?” Nori asks, vaguely suspicious and not in the mood for misdirection, judging by the edge in her voice.

 

“I have no idea where Bo is.” Bilbo says and sips her café au lait, pointedly looking at the band out on the terrace so that it’s only a half-lie, the kind that she’s gotten so good at telling.

 

“I know she’s with you, Bilbo.” Nori says on a sigh and stops sounding irritable, just tired. “Bombur called me to last night to ask why you were stuffing your face in his kitchen and crying into your sweet tea and what he needed to do to fix it.”

 

“And you recommended calling Bo?” Bilbo asks, feeling her face heat up even with no one around to witness it, embarrassed but by what, she’s not sure. The bartender has a strand of Bo’s hair wrapped around one finger, using it to draw her in so he can whisper in her ear. The expression on Bo's face fluctuates between willingness and a longing that is almost painful

 

“When I can’t fix it, she usually can.” Nori says and that thread of exhaustion is even more noticeable and what could possibly be making Nori, beautiful, strong Nori sound like the weight of the world has been loaded onto her slender shoulders. Clearly the BFG is falling down on the job. “Do you want to talk about it?” The last image of Gandalf, seated at the kitchen table, something approaching sadness in his eyes pops into Bilbo’s head and she sighs, finding her chin wobbling a little.

 

“I think I had a fight with Gandalf.”

 

“You think?” Nori says after a pause.

 

“Saruman accused me of helping you.” Bilbo says, pushing the remaining beignet around the plate, the tip of her finger collecting more and more sugar with each pass. “The word ‘traitor’ wasn’t used, but it was heavily implied and-”

 

“And Gandalf didn’t defend you.” Nori finishes over the sound of a car door closing, the background noise lessening significantly. “Because Saruman is a stuffy old jackass who makes people’s lives difficult simply because he feels like it.” Bilbo smiles at the indignation in her ex-girlfriend’s voice.

 

There is no love lost between Saruman and his former protégé and everyone knows it. The split occurred after Ori’s father showed up on Nori’s doorstep and told his daughter that he needed her to take her little brother for a little while so he could handle some personal business. That had been five years ago and Saruman held a grudge like it was going out of style.

 

“No, he didn’t.” the man at the table across from Bilbo’s keeps glancing at the bar when his wife’s attention is elsewhere. Bilbo looks that way to find the bartender holding out a strawberry for Bo to take a bite of.

 

“Oh, god.” Bilbo groans, slapping a hand against her forehead. “She’s doing it again.” The seriousness from seconds ago dissipates as Bo wraps her lips around the piece of fruit, eyes locked with the bartender’s. There are men at the bar staring in jaw-dropped lustful admiration and all Bilbo can think about is one time in Singapore and a police dragnet that led to them hiding in a dumpster for six hours.

 

“Bo the Super-Slut in residence, is she?” this time there’s amusement mixed with the tired in Nori’s voice. “How much has she had to drink?”

 

“Way too much,” Bilbo says, pushing her chair back from the table, slinging the heavy canvas tote up onto her shoulder. “She really needs to come up with a coping technique for heartbreak that doesn’t involve getting buzzed and hitting on anything with a dick.”

 

“Better go save her from herself, then.” Nori says, then her voice gets muffled for a second as if her hand is over the mouthpiece. She comes back on the line, clearing her throat. “Hey, Bee-bo?”

 

“Yeah, No-No?” the relationship may be over, but the ridiculous nicknames have stuck around. There’s a pause, long enough to be concerning and then Nori clears her throat again. Bilbo is distracted from Bo licking strawberry juice off her fingers by Nori’s hesitance.

 

“Watch your back, okay?” and then the phone clicks off, leaving Bilbo mildly concerned. Then she looks up and sees Bo has moved her mouth from her fingers to the bartender’s own lips and sighs because this will  _not_ be fun.

 

Bo parts from the bartender about as easily as bubblegum separates from the underside of a desk, but Bilbo is determined and full of beignets and ready to go back to Bombur’s where everything smells like fresh-baked bread and night-blooming jasmine. They settle the tab with Bo making inappropriate comments to their waiter while she twirls one dark curl and bats her eyelashes. One day, Bo will talk about the man who left her, the one who rescued her from a nightmare only to break her heart all over again. Until then, though, Bilbo has resigned herself to a future of prying her friend off ridiculously handsome men who are too young for her.

 

At least these two had jobs.

 

“Nori sounds tired.” Bilbo comments as they round a corner, Bo almost tangling with a lamppost before Bilbo pulls her away. Bo leans down to rest her head on top of Bilbo’s, the two of them swaying as Bilbo adjusts to the added weight.

 

Bo is a cuddly, fun-loving drunk. It’s about the only thing she has going for her right now in Bilbo’s estimation as one Bo’s hands wanders its way down into the back pocket of Bilbo’s capris.

 

“Nori’s always tired.” Bo says philosophically, her voice vibrating down through the top of Bilbo’s skull. “She’s just gotten worse at hiding it.” Bilbo’s phone vibrates in her pocket, crushed between the two of them and Bo giggles at the feeling. Somehow they make it back to Bombur’s, stopping only once so that Bo can pick Bilbo a stem of wisteria and shove it behind her ear, spattering Bilbo's hair and tank-top with golden pollen and purple flower petals. Along the way, Bilbo’s phone vibrates once, twice, three more times. It’s hard to be irritated with Bo though because she’s singing _La Vie En Rose_ in her gorgeous soprano voice and stopping every so often to kiss Bilbo on the cheek.

 

They’re finally on the sprawling front porch of Bombur’s house when Bilbo finally has a hand free to get her still buzzing phone, Bo having transferred her affections to her cousin, tugging at his bushy red beard and humming _Alouette_. The number on the screen is unfamiliar, but in a business where people change phones almost daily, she’s not surprised. She’s expecting a call from one of her fences anyway and he goes through prepaid phones like tissues.

 

“Bilbo Baggins,” she sidesteps a grasping hug from Bo and nudges the other woman back towards Bombur.

 

“Miss Baggins?” An unfamiliar hesitant voice hums in her ear and Bilbo’s heart goes into a free fall. That tone of voice is only used to deliver bad news, the worse kind of news. She has visions of Gandalf in a hospital bed or worse.

 

She clears her throat. “Yes, that’s me.” Bilbo says, the words rasping out of her throat even though she wants to swallow them, to throw the phone away and not have to hear the bad news. The turmoil must show on her face because Bo stops spinning and looks at her, whiskey brown eyes suddenly clear and alert.

 

“Miss Baggins, I’m so sorry to have to be the one to tell you this…”

 

* * *

 

The verdant mountains of the Scottish highlands stretch out into the distance, painted with morning fog and the few weak beams of sunlight that have managed to filter their way through brush the leaves they touch with a glowing emerald. Bilbo stares out over the panorama of the valley below, clutching a long since cooled mug of tea in one hand as the morning dew soaks the hem of her favorite pair of sweatpants, her feet bare in the long grass. It’s cold, but she’s past caring, past any kind of emotion other than numbness.

 

Freia Baggins is a tiny imp of a child with her mother’s dark curls and what must be her father’s beautiful blue eyes and until three days ago, Bilbo had no idea that she even existed. Just barely three years old, she doesn’t cry when Bilbo hesitantly picks her up for the first time, simply threads her fingers through Bilbo’s hair and smiles sleepily, clutching a ragged green stuffed rabbit in her other hand. Bilbo isn’t sure when the realization that her parents are dead will sink in or if very young children even comprehend things like that.

 

The social worker explains that a very nice policeman told Freia that her parents went to live in heaven. Bilbo wishes she had the innocence to believe such a blatant lie.

 

“ _... car accident…”_

_“…thrown from the vehicle…”_

_“…listed as her guardian…”_

Before the phone call, Bilbo hadn’t seen Primula Brandybuck since the funeral almost 16 years ago. She’d never met Drogo Baggins or known that Primula had even married. Her last memory of Primula was of a pretty dark-haired girl who wore ridiculous dresses and always made Bilbo be the prince when they played dress-up. Bilbo’s tried to figure out what exactly would make her cousin do something as insane as listing her as guardian of another human being, but the reasoning only lasts as long as it takes Bilbo to remember that her cousin is dead and it all devolves into fresh waves of panic and grief.

 

A light breeze sweeps up the hillside and Bilbo shivers in her pajamas, but doesn’t make a move to go inside. She's not ready for that. Not yet. Not ready to face the responsibilities or reality of her situation.

 

In the early morning quiet, the footfalls that approach are loud, the owner tramping across the gently sloping yard with no real attempt at stealth. The strong arms that wrap around her from behind are gentle, settling around her shoulders and holding her against a firm chest, an affectionate kiss pressed to the top of her head. Bifur’s body heat soaks into Bilbo, making her skin tingle with pins and needles.

 

God, what is she going to do? What is she going to do with a child? She doesn’t live in a single place for more than four months, she has a dozen aliases, she can’t cook (baking cookies doesn’t count), she’s a… she’s a thief, for crying out loud, a thief who is wanted by law enforcement agencies across the world. She’s not a parent and that poor little girl who cried herself to sleep in Bilbo’s lap because _shemissesMamaandDaddyandwhydidtheygo_ needs someone Bilbo’s not entirely sure she can be.

 

The first sob takes Bilbo by surprise, stealing out of her chest and through her gritted teeth. The second opens the floodgates and Bifur’s grip is all that holds her up as Bilbo slumps against him and the tears truly begin to fall.

 

* * *

 

Tokyo is out. Out and gone. Bilbo can’t imagine a little girl who has never lived outside a tiny rural town in the middle of Oregon surviving very well in a large city or in the penthouse suite that Bilbo keeps at the top of one of the towers. Besides, she doesn’t know anyone in Tokyo, not anyone that she would trust with Freia, to help her take care of him.

 

And Bilbo is not an idiot. She is more than aware that she cannot do this by herself, not when she can barely function on her own.

 

Likewise Madrid, Manila, Cairo and anywhere in South America are totally out. She doesn’t have a support system for anyone other than herself in these places and certainly not for someone who won’t eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with the crusts still on.

 

In the end, there is only one decision.

 

* * *

 

“You should have just come here first instead of running away to Scotland.” Nori says somewhat accusatorily when she opens the door to Bilbo and a sleeping Freia, the toddler’s curly head heavy on her shoulder. Behind Nori, the BFG hovers in the entryway, looking caught between sympathy and discomfort, sporting the same Interpol t-shirt he’d worn last time she’d visited. He nods at her and it’s maybe the first time that someone hasn’t looked at her with pity and she’s so grateful that tears threaten to pool in her eyes again.

 

"I didn't run away, Nori." Bilbo says with a sigh. She's not in the mood for a lecture and Nori seems to recognize that because her expression softens as she reaches out and takes the diaper bag from Bilbo's hand.

 

"It's kind of your M.O., Bee-bo." Nori says and strokes the back of her fingers down Freia's cheek.

 

Three heads poke around the corner, stacking up like multicolored blocks, curious expressions on young faces. In Bilbo’s arms Freia stirs and settles again, her grip on Bilbo’s sweatshirt tightening. The plane ride had been exhausting. Bilbo has been on flights with crying children, but this was first time that the crying child was her responsibility.

 

“Shhhh,” Nori holds a finger to her lips as she ushers Bilbo inside. “Why don’t you go help Dwalin get Bilbo’s bags?” Heads bob eagerly in unison, Kíli and Fíli grinning widely and Ori puffing his chest up in pride at being allowed to help. Bilbo takes a moment to gawk at the mile long purple scarf that her godson has wrapped around his neck, shoulders, and a good majority of his chest before she turns and follows Nori into the living room. Bilbo shifts the weight of the little girl in her arms, trying to find a spot that doesn’t further aggravate her shoulder. She finds one that’s slightly less painful than the others just in time for her own personal bloodhound to emerge from the kitchen wiping his hands on a dishtowel.

 

Bilbo doesn’t even have the energy to panic at the sight of Thorin.

 

She’s beyond exhausted and her body aches, but Freia has thrown a fit every time Bilbo has tried to put her down, clinging tight enough to choke. Thorin’s hair is shaggier and the silver in his beard seems more pronounced than before, but barefoot in jeans and a Henley, he’s still less intimidating than at their first meeting.

 

“Hey,” Thorin’s voice rumbles out of his chest like a freight train, his blue eyes warmer than she’s ever seen them, the usual fierceness in them tempered by something rapidly approaching humanity. Bilbo is already so overwhelmed with everything that she doesn’t know what to make of the warm greeting so she just smiles weakly and readjusts Freia again.

 

“Nori told me about your cousin. I’m sorry.” Bilbo nods, sure she’ll overanalyze the gentleness in his face as he stares at her… maybe after a whole lot of sleep and maybe a drink or two. Freia stirs in Bilbo’s arms again, murmurs “Mama” in her sweet little voice and Bilbo’s heart clenches. Thorin’s gaze never leaves her as the little girl starts to wake and for once Bilbo finds his presence comforting rather than terrifying.

 

Freia opens her blue eyes, framed by those long dark lashes, looks around at the unfamiliar setting and the strangers surrounding her and bursts into tears. Bilbo sighs and begins to bounce on the balls of her feet as those tiny arms wrap tightly around her neck.

 

She's definitely going to need a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are feeling sad after reading this chapter, please go to youtube and watch this adorable video of a baby sneezing and falling over. This is what I imagine Freia as when she was a baby.
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FG7FCsiUGKo


	6. Steal My Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The clock on the bedside table reads 7:39 AM. She was right. It’s way too early even for cute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all my lovelies, I offer up this tooth-decayingly sweet band aid to sooth your broken hearts after that last chapter. And yes, there is plenty more of this ridiculously sweet stuff to come. Loves for all!

* * *

**Chapter Six- Steal My Sunshine (Just not the Van Gogh or the Monet)**

 

“ _Bilbo,_ ” she knows it’s early. Her body knows it is way, way too early in the morning for this and not just because her body is readjusting after the international travel whirlwind session.

 

It’s _too_ early.

 

“ _Bil…bo._ ” the whisper this time is accompanied by a finger pushing against her cheek, insistent and not likely to go away soon, especially when she groans and tries to pull the blanket over her head.

 

“For the love of God, what could you possibly want?” Bilbo grumbles and her attacker giggles maniacally and pokes her again, thrilled to get a response. There is more poking, more than one hand.

 

“Can we braid your hair?” _We?_ Bilbo cracks an eye open at that, drags the blanket down and glares at the little redhead standing by the bedside. Well, at least she does for all of two seconds. Ori has Freia awkwardly perched on his back piggy-back style, not shrieking or crying, but smiling widely, one side of her dark curly hair poorly braided.

 

The clock on the bedside table reads 7:39 AM. She was right. It’s way too early even for cute.

 

“Where did you find the three year old?” Bilbo asks, because the last time she’d seen her, Freia had been asleep in the Pack’n’Play in the corner of the bedroom.

 

“In the hallway.” Ori says, smiling widely. “Nori changed her diaper and we ate some cereal and now we want to braid your hair.” Bilbo groans at the thought that Freia is already capable of escaping her little plastic and nylon prison. It might be genetic. Primula had always had a similar propensity for being where she wasn’t supposed to be too.

 

“B’aid?” Freia says with her big eyes looking at Bilbo expectantly, one little hand tugging at Ori’s red hair. Bilbo has long suspected that Ori’s obsession with braiding comes from the fact that he’s never been able to grow his hair out long enough to do it for himself. There has always been an incident when he’s tried: bubble gum, getting it caught in the vacuum, a jealous (and very determined) little girl at school with a pair of Fiskar safety scissors.

 

“Give me ten minutes,” she says around a yawn. “And tell Nori if she drank all the coffee, I’m not talking to her.” Ori gives a resounding cheer and waddles from the bedroom with Freeia still attached to him like a little limpet in her My Little Pony pajamas.

 

True to her word—although she parts with her bed in almost physical pain—Bilbo stumbles into the kitchen ten minutes later and almost trips over Kíli who is dragging himself across the floor by his arms and making pterodactyl noises.

 

Seated at the breakfast nook in the corner, Nori has one elbow on the table propping her head up in her hand, the other one tightly clutching a mug. She looks as though a train has hit her. Bilbo steps over the still squawking Kíli and goes straight for the coffee pot.

 

“It pays off in the end, right? This parent thing.” Bilbo asks, settling beside her ex, inhaling the smell of fresh-ground ridiculously expensive coffee beans. There’s no answer and she looks over to find that Nori has fallen asleep with her face propped on her hand, snoring lightly.

 

“Yeah, there’s a reason we’re not together anymore,” Bilbo mutters and drinks her coffee to the dulcet tones of Not-so Jurassic Park being reenacted throughout the apartment.

 

* * *

 

Three little boys versus one little girl.

 

They don’t stand a chance. No one does except Bilbo because she’s bad with kids, but no one holds it against her. Freia calls the boys her ‘princes’ or some toddler-speak approximation of that and they in turn treat her like a queen. She is carefully placed on the couch between the lot of them while they watch cartoons and eat grapes, carefully plucking any missed stems from her fruit before she’s allowed to eat them and playing cowboys and aliens across the common areas of the apartment. In turn, Freia allows Ori to braid her hair and Kíli and Fíli to color some of the pages in her Clifford coloring book and other than when Kíli gets his finger slammed in the door and Freia starts crying because Kíli’s crying, everything is fine.

 

It is Freia’s sudden and intense attachment to Thorin, though, that is perhaps the most unnerving for Bilbo.

 

Six days after Bilbo shuffles into New York with her proverbial tail between her legs, Thorin comes to pick up the boys from Nori’s after work as is apparently the routine. The boys instantly attack their father with the customary bear-hug greeting, Freia hanging back until the assault is over before toddling forward and holding out her little arms to Thorin.

 

“Up,” She says with a spine-meltingly sweet smile, still holding her arms up. Thorin meets Bilbo’s gaze across the living room, Bilbo’s shock mirrored in his face and she nods hesitantly. As if he is picking up the most delicate and precious piece of art ever, Thorin lifts Freia into his arms, a little dark-haired princess in her purple dress and green tights who looks just enough like the man holding her that genetic relation isn’t really stretch. If Bilbo weren’t feeling so shell-shocked at both the events and the image in front of her, she would have laughed at the sight of Freia planting a sticky kiss on the man’s cheek as she squeezes her arms around his neck before wiggling to be put down almost immediately. Once her little feet are on the ground, she’s off, leading the boys on an assault of the foyer and Bilbo is still frozen on the couch, her lemonade lifted halfway to her mouth.

 

“How come _he_ gets a hug?” Dwalin—Bilbo has been forced to publicly pinky-promise on Freia’s stuffed bunny that she will not refer to the man as the BFG anymore—grumps from the love seat, folded around Nori who is doing something with sharp object and yarn (Bilbo refuses to believe that one of the most notorious jewel thieves ever is _knitting_ , so she’s pretending Nori’s doing something else). “I got kicked in the shin.”

 

“You told her she was a very beautiful princess.” Nori says, focused intently on the yarn and one of the sharp objects and the very large knot that she has created.

 

“What’s wrong with that then?” Dwalin mutters, moderately indignant, resting his stubbled chin on Nori’s shoulders. Bilbo has had nearly a week to adjust to the copious displays of affection between the two of them, to being stuck in an apartment with the couple still in their honeymoon phase. At least she doesn’t shriek with horror like the kids do when Dwalin and Nori lock lips.

 

“She was pretending to be a pirate.” Nori says, her tongue peeking out of her mouth as she continues to work at the knot. “Entirely different genre.”

 

“And how was I to know that?” Dwalin asks, leaning back when Nori’s yanking on the yarn almost earns him a knitting needle through the forehead.

 

“Context, sweetheart. Context. She wasn’t saying ‘arrr’ for the hell of it.” Bilbo shakes her head at the two, turns away to find Thorin still in the doorway, more amused than surprised now, the corners of his mouth twitching. Bilbo’s cheeks heat against her will as she turns her attention back to the book in her lap.

 

* * *

 

“You are _not_ taking a job.” Nori punctuates the order by ripping the last three carefully packed sweaters out of Bilbo’s bag and flinging them onto the bed. Sitting in the laundry basket in the corner simply because she can, Freia makes a raspberry and throws a handful of dirty socks in the air.

 

“See? Freia agrees with me.” Nori says smugly, folding her arms across her chest. The fresh tattoo on her forearm gleams with a fresh coat of lotion, colorful and beautiful. It is simultaneously adorable and sickening, the little magpie tattoo that she’d gotten and the fact that it makes her so ridiculously happy, that Dwalin makes her so ridiculously happy. Bilbo sighs, grabs the sweaters and shoves them back into her bag.

 

“Hey, Freia, did you like that bath you got last night? The one that made you cry like I was boiling you alive?” Bilbo asks, slapping Nori’s hands away from her bag. Freia makes a raspberry and giggles. “See? Not the best judge of character.”

 

“Bilbo,” that’s Nori’s _serious_ voice and Bilbo focuses intently on folding her t-shirts just right so she won’t have to see the accompanying look. This is of course spoiled when Nori flops her entire body across the suitcase in a demonstration of incredible maturity and stares up at her. “You have a child now. You can’t go flying off halfway around the world to do dangerous _and highly illegal things_.” The last part is a whisper with a glance at Freia who has been known to repeat things in that shouldn’t be repeated. For example: Fíli trying to teach Ori how to swear, Freia overhearing, and saying ‘damn’ at the dinner table and then promptly ratting out her accomplices with a bat of her big blue eyes.

 

“It’s not a job,” Bilbo mutters, shoving at Nori’s head so she can pack more pairs of child sized socks especially with Freia in her current phase of stripping off socks and shoes and flinging them in opposite directions. Nori’s braids are more orderly this morning; Ori’s skills are clearly improving. There’s a miniature teapot hanging from one, but Bilbo doesn’t say anything less Nori offer up Bilbo’s hair for Ori’s mad machinations.

 

“Then why did you pack your lockpicks?” Nori counters, waving the leather case with a smile, clearly purloined when Bilbo wasn’t looking. She makes a grab for them and ends up grabbing air, Nori already wiggling them at her from the other hand.

 

Clearly domesticity has done little to dull the Queen of Thieves’ skills.

 

“I _always_ pack my lockpicks.” Bilbo retorts and makes another grab for them, her shorter arms putting her at a disadvantage. Nori rolls off the half-packed suitcase with lightning speed, putting the bed between the two of them, her eyes flashing with wicked humor.

 

“It’s a job. You’ve got a job lined up.” Bilbo chucks a rolled up pair of socks at Nori who dodges with a stuck-out tongue. In the laundry basket, Freia shrieks with laughter, clapping her hands like they’re putting on a play for her enjoyment.

 

“You think I’m going to drag a three year old along on a job? The last job I had, I went through a skylight and now my shoulder doesn’t work right.” Nori opens her mouth to protest and Bilbo takes the opportunity of distraction to lunge across the bed, snagging the picks with ease before stuffing them into the depths of her bag, triumphant in her victory.

 

“So it’s not a job?” Nori sounds only half-convinced, but she’s been distracted by the tattoo on her arm, looking at it with a smile. Bilbo rolls her eyes at the sappy expression and gains a deeper understanding into why their relationship had never worked in the first place, mostly because she’d never made Nori grin like a loon.

 

“No, it’s not. Gandalf needs some advice and I’m going to give it to him.”

 

“I thought you two were fighting.” Nori says suspiciously, sinking back onto the bed, folding her legs under her.

 

“We are. I think Bo told him about Freia and he probably wants to make up while also chiding me for poor life choices.” The little girl looks up at the mention of her name, one of Bilbo’s bras perched like a hat on her curls. Bilbo almost face palms, wants to face palm, doesn’t face palm because this isn’t even the strangest thing the toddler has done today.

 

“Ah, so Gramps wants to meet the grandkid.” Bilbo barks a surprised laugh and Nori blinks as the surprised laugh devolves into a fit of giggles, Bilbo bracing herself on the edge of the bed so she doesn’t fall down.

 

“Sorry,” Bilbo gasps when she can finally draw air into her lungs two minutes later. “I just had a mental image Gandalf drinking out of a No. 1 Granddad mug.”

 

“Not that funny,” Nori says even though she smiles, obviously appreciating the humor of the situation.

 

“You weren’t raised by him.” Bilbo retorts, wiping at the corners of her eyes.

 

“Point.” Nori murmurs, fingers the teapot at the end of her braid. “Hmm, Gandalf as a grandfather.”

 

“Who’s Gandalf?” they turn in unison to find Thorin in the doorway, Kíli hanging around his neck like a ridiculously large medallion, Fíli’s head pressed into his uncle’s ribs, arms only reaching halfway around the man’s waist. The big man seems completely unfazed by his accessories even as Kíli starts to lose his grip and kicks him in the thigh to try and climb higher.

 

“Tho’!” Freia chants from the laundry basket, reaching towards the man, Bilbo’s bra still perfectly balanced atop her head. “Tho’, Tho’, Tho’!” Bilbo makes a mental note to not talk about her former associates in front of Freia even though she doesn’t doubt that Thorin will be running Gandalf’s name the very second he gets the chance. Not that he’ll find anything, The Wizard is very good at covering his tracks.

 

“Old friend of the family,” Bilbo says and busies herself picking up a now-shrieking Freia and not so surreptitiously sweeping the bra away. Freia wiggles to be put down so that she can run over to Thorin who acquiesces with the nonverbal request and swings her up into his arms while simultaneously preventing Kíli from falling.

 

Bilbo does _not_ look at his biceps.

 

Thorin’s blue gaze tracks Bilbo around the apartment for the rest of the morning, she can feel it on her back but every time she looks at him, he’s looking somewhere else, like a ridiculous middle school game. The suspicion and intent from a few weeks ago is back, but it’s tempered with something else, something unnamable as Bilbo drags Kíli around the living room on her leg, the dark-haired little boy begging to go with her on the trip.

 

Thorin’s working from home for the day (not that it’s actually his home) and Bilbo feels as though he’s doing it to keep her balanced on the knife-edge of paranoia. And does an amazing job at it. It’s only when she finally settles into her seat aboard the Air France flight, Freia distracted by a baggie of Goldfish crackers that Bilbo finally feels the tension in her shoulders begin to lessen.

 

* * *

 

Turbulence is not the friend of a person flying with a child. Freia alternates between whimpering with every jolt and flat-out wailing as the plane dips and bobs in the sky. By the time they land in Monaco, Bilbo has a raging headache, low blood sugar, and an exhausted little girl in her arms.

 

It’s only natural that they’re stepping out of the town car in front of Gandalf’s home when Freia suddenly vomits and starts crying again. Bilbo stands on the front step, her luggage littering the ground around her and wants to burst into tears herself. This is where her father finds her ten minutes later, both covered in sick and half-digested goldfish crackers.

 

“You never were a fan of small children,” Gandalf comments from the bathroom doorway as Bilbo sluices warm water over Freia’s dark head, washing away the no-tears shampoo. The little girl is asleep in the tub, Bilbo’s arms the only thing holding her up. Even still smelling like sick and so tired that her eyes burn, Bilbo feels a tug at her heartstrings at the sight of the little girl, so trusting and accepting and not in the least bit judgmental when Bilbo does something wrong.

 

“What was Primula thinking? Giving _you_ a child to raise.” It occurs to Bilbo that her father is probably thinking aloud as he is wont to do, but she’s passed the point of caring about social cues at the moment. One more cup of water and Freia’s dark hair is suds-free and Bilbo snatches the big plush green towel off the toilet seat and carefully scoops Freia up out of the warm water and into her arms. The little girl doesn’t even stir, her body limp.

 

“Here, Grandpa,” Bilbo says with no little amount of sarcasm because she’s still pissed at him and plops a soaking wet towel-swaddled Freia into Gandalf’s startled arms and steps back. “Meet your granddaughter.” And she stalks out of the room.

 

He finds her not much later, on the deck that overlooks the valley, and though he purses his mouth disapprovingly at the cigarette between her lips, he seems to understand that she is not in the mood for a lecture. Bilbo still smells like sick and still has a raging headache and she wants to just not have to be for a moment: to not have any real responsibility or for someone to validate her and tell her that she’s not irrevocably screwing up this little girl who has had the worst things in the world thrust upon her at such a young age.

 

“Did you know that I kept that your old copy of Hairy Maclary from Donaldson’s Dairy?” Gandalf says conversationally as he seats himself on the edge of the wall beside her. “She may have been mostly asleep, but I like to think she has the same taste as her mother.”

 

Bilbo sighs, long and full of self-pity, “I’m not her mother, Gandalf. Her mother is dead. I’m the ham-fisted pitiful attempt at a parent that she’s stuck with.” He hums softly to himself, staring out into the moonlit night. Bilbo flicks ash off the end of her cigarette and feels guilty for losing her temper earlier.

 

“Are you quite finished feeling sorry for yourself?” Gandalf says and Bilbo sighs again.

 

“Give me a minute,” she replies and takes another drag of her cigarette. When they both silently rise to go back inside, Gandalf wraps an arm around her shoulders and presses a kiss to her forehead.

 

“For my lack of words and defense, I apologize, dear heart. You are a strong, beautiful young woman and twice the parent I will ever be.” Bilbo leans into his side, breathing in chamomile and pipe tobacco and finally feels the tension begin to slide from her shoulders.

 

* * *

 

“Rad! Rad! Rad!” it is decidedly immature to giggle uncontrollably at the sight of one of the most famous art thieves of all time giving piggyback rides. However, Bilbo has had just enough ridiculously good wine to be pleasantly tipsy and Gandalf is laughing heartily and she just gives in, wrapped in an old pair of sweats and one of her father’s sweaters.

 

Radagast has a magical manner when it comes to children, whether it be the sweets secreted away in the pockets of his old wool cardigans or the willingness to pull a silly face and make a fool of himself. Freia is in love and Bilbo doesn’t even want to think about the fireworks that will happen when she has to separate the two. A hand settles over hers, giving a reassuring squeeze before retreating and Bilbo turns her attention to the man next to her.

 

“Saruman has a job; he wants you for it.” With his usual abrupt manner, Gandalf drops the offer into her lap, watching her over the top of his wine glass. On the floor, Radagast suddenly flops down in a boneless heap and Freia tumbles from his back onto the pillows and blankets that had at one point been a fort, shrieking with laughter.

 

“The last time I worked with Saruman, I nearly got my head taken off by a lift and he told me I was simple-minded when it came to alarm systems.” Bilbo says, reaching for the wine bottle even though she’s probably had enough. “What’s the job?” she’s not actively considering it, but curiosity has always been a weakness of hers.

 

“There is a gentleman in St. Petersburg who has a rather large collection of Old Masters and someone is willing to pay quite a sum of money for at least three of them.” Bilbo’s mind races, already planning and plotting: exit strategies, equipment, and blueprints. A tug on her skirt draws her from the plotting.

 

“Drink?” Freia’s hands grasp demandingly for the newly filled wineglass and she automatically lifts it out of the little girl’s reach, handing over the Elmo sippy cup with a pat to the wild dark curls. Freia grins with a wrinkle of her little button nose and blows a kiss, a newly learned skill courtesy of Fíli. She blows one back and Freia laughs, pleased with herself.

 

Gandalf is looking at her speculatively when Bilbo returns her attention to him, his unlit pipe clamped between his teeth.

 

“What?” On the floor, Freia crawls into Radagast’s lap with her sippy cup, eyes starting to droop.

 

“I believe I will tell him that you are indisposed,” is his mysterious reply. Bilbo knows better than to argue with that expression and she settles deeper into the overstuffed couch with her wine, watching Radagast hum a lullaby and rock the little girl to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Dwalin and Thorin have an entire wall of Nori’s living room dedicated to crime scene photos and schematics and a poster reproduction of Degas’ “The Bellelli Family”. Two steps into the room and Bilbo sees pictures from some her own heists as well as some of Nori’s old work and the work of a dozen other people she knows before she can tear her gaze away and try to school her expression into something less panicked. Slipping away unseen isn’t an option, Thorin turns without warning, his gaze pinning her to the spot. There’s something knowing in his gaze that makes her want to protest the unspoken accusation.

 

“Bilbo,” Thorin says with a degree of familiarity that he really shouldn’t use because he doesn’t know her. Well, not in that sense. He knows the Burglar, but Bilbo isn’t even sure if she is the Burglar anymore so he doesn’t know jack shit. Dwalin turns, frown lines grooved deep into his face, nods at her absent-mindedly.

 

“Where’s Nori?” Bilbo asks, aiming for nonchalance and failing miserably because her hand keeps twitching and the phantom pain in her shoulder is surging. With a redheaded buffer in place, the two men in front of her aren’t frightening at all; without it, she has to resist the urge to run screaming.

 

“Ori had a dentist appointment. She took the boys with her.” They’re both staring at her, then at each other, then back at her and a knot forms just under Bilbo’s ribs. Then Dwalin gives Thorin a Meaningful Look and turns back to the wall, leaving the man staring at her like she’s a strange museum exhibit… or like she’s stolen one. Bilbo manages another weak smile and backs out of the room.

 

She starts making plans to move out the second she gets back to her room.

 

* * *

 

_You are being ridiculous,_ Nori’s face says as Bilbo apartment hunts across Manhattan, trailed by Freia in a Batman cape and purple tutu and a cranky ex-girlfriend.

 

_I’m not living in the same house as three Interpol agents_ , Bilbo replies just as silently with a pursed mouth and arched eyebrow. The real estate agent seems to sense Nori’s reticence to the endeavor and focuses her attention purely on Bilbo, which is good, seeing as she’s the actual client. There may be some flirting involved.

 

“There are good schools around here.” the realtor says at the second apartment, a consummate professional even after Freia—who has decided that she is blind today—slams into her legs for a third time. Bilbo scruffs her niece with a newly found ease and nudges her off towards The Terrible Trio who are using the floor-to-ceiling wall of windows to eyeball the distance between the fifth floor and the ground.

 

“She _needs_ a zookeeper,” Nori mutters as Freia slams into Ori, bowling the boy over. Bilbo sinks her elbow into the other woman’s side and manages a smile.

 

* * *

 

“And how will you be paying again?” the realtor asks after Freia takes one look at the green bathroom of the fourth apartment and proceeds to say ‘puke’ over and over again.

 

“Dead husband,” Bilbo says through gritted teeth and drags the chanting little girl away.

 

* * *

 

Nori doesn’t like the fifth or sixth apartment for no other reason than she’s feeling bitchy.

 

* * *

 

The realtor is still blandly polite by the eighth, but her eyes have a distinctly glazed look. Bilbo says ‘yes’ to the ninth apartment, partly because it’s perfect and partly because she’s worried about the realtor’s blood pressure. The hardwood floors and vaulted ceilings are beautiful and she’s got an entire wall of built-in bookshelves to put good use. Freia loves the skylight in her bedroom and is even more enthused by the prospect of a bed shaped like a rocket ship which Ori talks up like it’s the second coming of Christ. Plans are made to ship things from Murmansk and LA and half-a-dozen other places around the world so that its _home_ and not just another safe house.

 

Bilbo finally thinks she can breathe… and then in what is a fit of petulance disguised as a kind deed, Nori enlists Dwalin and Thorin to help Bilbo move in.

 

“This completely defeats the purpose of them not knowing where I live,” Bilbo mutters as she watches the two men carrying boxes of books into the living room. She’s been forbidden from helping—Nori says something vague about a softball injury—and has been limited to pointing and trying not to stare at the flex of Thorin’s biceps as he carries in the box labeled “Harry Potter and The Chronicles of Narnia”. He catches her staring anyway and smirks when she blushes.

 

They order in pizza and sit among the unpacked boxes and talk and despite herself, Bilbo begins to relax. Freia is in her lap, covered in sauce and cheese and it’s the first time in a very long time that she hasn’t felt the need to run.

 

* * *

 

Not more than a week after they move in, Freia wakes up sick on Thursday, burning up with a fever and earache and crying piteously when she’s not involuntarily puking or sleeping fitfully. By Friday night, Bilbo is vacillating so rapidly between exhaustion and worry that she finally gives in and calls Nori.

 

Thorin shows up instead, but Bilbo’s too frazzled to even be a little paranoid at the sight of the Interpol agent in her home or the knowledge that Nori is doing something mysterious in Belgium with Dwalin. The three of them have taken to ceasing conversation when Bilbo enters the room and if she weren’t so tired, she’d be asking a lot of very pointed questions.

 

“Go take a shower,” Thorin orders imperiously, sweeping a whimpering Freia out of her arms with ease, already swaying with the natural bounce that some parents possessed and that Bilbo hadn’t quite managed to master. When she doesn’t move right away, still watching Freia’s little flushed face, Thorin’s expression softens. “She’ll be all right, Bilbo. I promise.”

 

She stands under the hot spray until her fingers prune and the water starts to cool. Wearing yoga pants and a comfortably worn Zeppelin t-shirt that was Bo’s at one point, Bilbo shuffles back out into the living room, exhaustion weighing her down with every step.

 

The living room is lit only by the illumination of the city outside the window and Thorin is on the couch, gently cradling Freia who is dressed in a new pair of pajamas. It takes Bilbo a moment to realize that the near subsonic rumble that burrows through the soles of her feet is Thorin singing, some unknown lullaby to the child in his arms. It’s such a departure from the intensely brooding man who has hunted her across the world that Bilbo can’t stop herself from stepping forward, drawn to this new incarnation of Thorin Durin.

 

“…to dungeons deep and caverns old. The pines were roaring, on the height.” Freia is sound asleep, limp against Thorin’s chest, one hand loosely grasping the shirt of the man who holds her and as Bilbo steps closer, she sees the cloth that Thorin holds against the toddler’s ear. The song doesn’t end even when he notices her standing there and Bilbo finds herself sinking onto the opposite end of the couch to listen, the exhaustion winning now that she’s clean and so warm. Her eyes are closed and she’s resting her head against the back of the couch when the song ends on a deep mournful note that sends an involuntary shiver down her back.

 

“Bilbo?” She forces her eyes open, finds Thorin standing over her, a sleeping Freia in one arm, his hand extended to her. “You’re going to regret it if you fall asleep on the couch.” She’s ridiculously tiny next to his muscular bulk as he easily pulls her up off the couch, her head coming to just under his shoulder and she wants very much to just rest her head against his bicep.

 

“You’re very tall; you don’t look that tall as press conferences,” Bilbo mumbles around a yawn, already imagining the warmth of her sheets and the possibility of sleeping more than an hour at a time. She careens off his hip and then the wall as they walk down the hall towards her bedroom and he wraps a thick arm around her, steadying her stumbling feet.

 

Exhaustion weighs Bilbo’s body into the mattress, pressing on her eyelids and she’s only half-aware of the blankets settling over her body as she curls onto her side. Sleep dangles in front of her, beckoning enticingly and she falls into it willingly, unaware of the piercing blue eyes that watch her from the doorway.

 

* * *

 

The date comes completely out of left field as dates apparently do, but Bilbo wouldn't know, she hasn't actually dated anyone since Nori and it's not like that ended well.

 

Bilbo is at Nori’s apartment for a “play date”—which is really just she, Nori, Dwalin and Thorin sprawled on the couches drinking beer while the children run wild around the apartment, playing astronaut—when Thorin who has been mostly quiet for the evening, turns to Bilbo and asks if she’d like to get coffee sometime. Her gut reaction is ‘yes’ and she ignores Nori’s smirk while trying not to read too much into the pleased expression on Thorin’s face.

 

It’s a warm June day and the café is small and out of the way and has delicious chocolate chip scones. Thorin is dressed like a normal human being in jeans and a blue button down that matches his eyes and a vaguely nervous smile like he isn’t sure if she’s doing this just to be polite. Bilbo finds herself leaning on the table and smiling and laughing at some truly awkward flirting, enjoying the faint flush that she elicits. A point in Thorin’s favor, he doesn’t make any comments about the scone or the ridiculously large coffee she picks and if anything he encourages it by pointing out that he’s heard the pastries are delicious here.

 

They end up walking after their coffee is finished to nowhere in particular and Bilbo finds herself telling him about Freia’s parents, how she and Primula had been the best of friends as small children and how her extended family, the Sackville-Bagginses are completely mental and always made a bad showing at the family reunions. In return, he tells her about Fíli and Kíli and how their mother had died giving birth to Kíli and how he’d spent the first year of parenthood terrified that he was screwing the kids up for life and how he’d lost Fíli in Central Park one afternoon only to find the boy sitting in the lap of a mounted patrol officer, gleefully gripping handfuls of the horse’s mane while he tried to make it ‘giddy-up.’

 

Things they do NOT discuss: his job and her mysterious past.

 

Things they DO talk about: dinner on Wednesday night.

 

Bilbo smiles for days afterwards.


	7. Gold Digger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Does Thorin know about you and me?”

* * *

 

**Chapter Seven- Gold Digger (Less gold digging, more gold thieving...)**

 

“Does Thorin know about you and me?” Nori asks from somewhere overhead. Bilbo is bent at the waist, breathing hard, a rip of pain tearing up her side.

 

Jogging is evil.

 

Jogging in Central Park before 8 am is evil.

 

Pants that are getting too tight are evil.

 

Too many scones are evil.

 

Nori is evil.

 

Nori is… wait, what?

 

“What?” Bilbo wheezes, straightening with a wince, hand pressed to the ache in her side. Nori is defying the rules of exercising by looking like an advertisement for a Reebok commercial, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. Bilbo hates her a little bit.

 

“Does Thorin know about us?” Nori asks again. Bilbo runs a hand through her sweat-soaked curls, still breathing sharply through her nose. They haven’t even done a mile yet and she’s already dying.

 

“What? That we used to fuck?” a power-walking senior citizen who is in better shape than Bilbo could ever hope to be, gives a startled gasp and quickly puts distance between them.

 

“Charming,” Nori mutters, still bouncing and Bilbo takes a half-hearted swipe at her.

 

“Shut up and buy me a coffee.”

 

Once they’re settled on a bench in the sunshine and Bilbo has stopped gasping like a landed fish and can fully appreciate her mocha and blueberry muffin, they have the Conversation that they really should have had all along.

 

“Does Dwalin know?” Nori steals a piece of streusel topping and nods while she chews, staring out at the ducks on the pond. Bilbo eyes her best friend over the top of her to-go cup.

 

“Third date; told him I had an ex-girlfriend.” Nori grins, affectionate and warm, caught up in the memory. Bilbo sips her coffee, waiting for Space Station Nori to float back down to earth before she asks. “And?”

 

“You’re cute, but not his type.” Nori responds with a suggestive wiggle of her eyebrows. Bilbo pulls the muffin back out of Nori’s reach, slapping away her fingers as retribution. Nori pouts, then turns speculative, shifting on the bench until they’re facing each other.

 

“So you haven’t told Thorin?” Nori presses, fingers stroking across the tattoo on her forearm in a manner that Bilbo is starting to realize is subconscious.

 

“No, Nori, I haven’t told the man that I’ve been on _one_ date with that I used to have ridiculously adrenaline fueled sex with his best friend’s girlfriend.” Bilbo says and stuffs too much muffin in her mouth.

 

Nori’s bitch-face is epic.

 

“Well, how do you _think_ that conversation is gonna go?” Bilbo asks, picking at the muffin rather than eating it. “Thorin, my ex—you know, Nori—and I are still best friends. Oh, and we’re also thieves who you’ve probably chased all over the world.” Nori’s second bitch-face has more regret in it.

 

“Dwalin knows, right?” Bilbo asks later when they’re showered and not jogging and at the organic market down the street from Nori’s.

 

“Knows what?” Nori is frowning at the white asparagus a little too intently. Bilbo kicks her in the ankle, but Nori’s reply is lost in the approach of a store employee, probably worried Nori is upset about something. When people think Nori is upset they tend to leap to fix it no matter the issue.

 

“Yes and no.” Nori says when they alone again, selecting apples for picky eaters because Ori’s criteria for apples is rigorous. Bilbo waits for elaboration.

 

“When we first met, he was questioning me about some thefts. Two of which were yours, by the way, _Burglar_.” Nori scrapes a braid behind her ear, a nervous gesture from someone world-renowned for steady hands and nerves of steels. “So there was suspicion at first even when he asked me out.”

 

“Well, you’re obviously head over heels in love and he hasn’t arrested you yet, so what did you do?” Bilbo’s curiosity is piqued by the manner in which Nori is avoiding eye contact.

 

“One night, Ori went to Thorin’s and Dwalin and I sat down and talked. Three rules: no judgment, no arresting, and if the stuff we talked about was too much, he could walk away with no repercussions.” Nori fiddles with the apple in her hand.

 

“And?” Bilbo pushes after the silence stretches past awkward and into avoidance.

 

“And I told him everything. You, me, Saruman; I told him about my mom.” Nori admits softly and Bilbo instantly slides in close, slips an arm around her waist. The topic of Nori’s mother is a sore one and the fact that she shared it with Dwalin shows that Nori is completely gone for the man.

 

“He really loves you, Nori.” Bilbo squeezes her arm and Nori hugs her back.

 

“I know,” happiness shines in Nori’s face as she ruffles Bilbo’s hair before separating to put their apples in the shopping cart. Bilbo is jealous but for reasons other than a failed relationship.

 

“But that’s not going to work with Thorin,” Bilbo says, trying to draw the touchy-feely aspect of the afternoon to an end. She doesn’t want to think about the semantics of trying to be in a relationship with an Interpol agent. “And besides, we’re not there yet. Not even close.”

 

“Don’t worry.” Nori says with a mysterious smile. “You will be.”

 

Bilbo is not reassured in the least.

 

oOo

 

“That is _not_ what I thought you were going to ask,” Bombur says, his ladle banging against the inside of a pot in time to the shouted instructions in French that are being bandied in the background behind him. Dinnertime in full swing at Chez Ur; it’s even more hectic when one is actually present.

 

“What did you think I was going to ask you?” Bilbo says, mildly concerned as she holds the phone between her ear and her shoulder while she tries to wrestle Freia into a clean dress. They have a date with an open house at a private kindergarten school because it won’t kill Freia to interact with children who aren’t the Terrible Trio and mostly because Gandalf has been sending her literature about the place and places like it for almost a month. Mostly she’s trying to appease Gandalf who is taking his newfound status as grandfather very seriously.

 

“Advice on how to tell your Interpol boyfriend that your kleptomaniac vagina is a swinging door,” Bilbo accidentally drops her iPhone on Freia’s head, they never make it to the open house, and Bilbo never gets the sweet cornbread recipe that she’d called Bombur for in the first place.

 

She does, however, discover that she’s a focus of conversation among her friends and family and that her father has started a betting pool on various relationship milestones. After the fourth phone call not so subtly seeking information, Bilbo pleasantly reminds Bifur that she still has his ex-wife’s number and that she will use it. She hangs up and makes an anguished face that sends the toddler in her lap into a fit of giggles.

 

“Don’t ever date, sweetheart,” Bilbo says, stroking her hand over Freia’s eggbeater styled curls. “Because your family is crazy and will not give you a moment of peace.” Freia claps her hands and demands goldfish crackers.

 

oOo

 

“Oh my god, I think I love you.” The words pop out before she can stop them and Bilbo blushes, but Thorin just laughs. The door closes behind them, enveloping her in the warmth and rich scents of the Italian restaurant, the murmur of conversation drifting over her.

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard that on a second date before.” Thorin says, one arm wrapping around her waist, the gesture almost hesitant. Bilbo leans into the touch, smiling softly when the hesitancy drops away and his large hand curves around her hip. He’s a solid, strong presence behind her and she presses against him while they wait to be seated.

 

“Favorite children’s movie?” Bilbo asks once the waiter has brought the wine and breadsticks. She’s very purposefully _not_ looking at the breadsticks. Her absolute failure at actually completing a workout routine without getting frustrated and quitting has only served to make her feel guilty about every calorie that passes her lips.

 

“You mean the one I can still watch without losing my mind?” Thorin asks, reaching for a breadstick. Bilbo flicks her gaze to the wine bottle. She is ordering a salad for dinner if it kills her and it will, but she’s doing it too.

 

“Bilbo,” she realizes that she’s drifted while he’s been speaking and her cheeks heat again. She’s come to realize that she spends the vast majority of time in Thorin’s presence blushing like an idiot.

 

“Sorry,” she murmurs and his blue eyes dance with undisguised humor.

 

“Toy Story,” Thorin says, cocking his head to the side as he stares at her. “I like Toy Story.” She resists the urge to squirm under the weight of his gaze, wondering if she’d already managed to get wine on her shirt already. His smile softens the longer her looks.

 

“What?” she asks, unable to look away. He shakes his head as if clearing it and some of the softness fades into amusement.

 

“Will you get offended if I tell you to eat a breadstick?” the sudden question makes her blink and Thorin looks embarrassed.

 

“Because you don’t want to eat them all?” Bilbo asks slowly, confused, reaching for her wineglass. Thorin hesitates a beat before he takes a deep breath, visibly having made up his mind.

 

“Because I talked to your ex-girlfriend and she said if you didn’t eat anything with carbs in it, you were feeling self-conscious.” Bilbo chokes on her wine. When she’s got her breath back and her eyes aren’t watering, Bilbo stares at Thorin who looks caught between mortified and relieved.

 

“You talked to Nori?” she asks, voice raspy from coughing. There are two exits out of the restaurant, not counting the route through the kitchen and Bilbo is seriously considering using one of them. Thorin’s mortification is starting to turn back into amusement and Bilbo is tense in her chair, preparing for SWAT teams and spotlights.

 

“More like she cornered me and told me under no circumstances should I let you pull that “salad bullshit” because you are beautiful just the way you are and I better realize that.” Bilbo lets herself bask in the warmth of Nori’s affection for two seconds before the reality of the situation hits her. Realization is close behind.

 

“Dwalin told you.” Bilbo says, fiddling with the stem of her wineglass, avoiding eye contact. “About Nori and I.” Thorin chuckles softly, leaning back in his chair.

 

“Yeah.” He doesn’t look upset though, more curious than anything. “You were not what I was expecting though. From the way Nori talks about you, I thought you were the second coming of Cindy Crawford.” Something twists in Bilbo’s gut and she stares down at the tablecloth, suddenly self-conscious that she is not this bastion of universal beauty. Thorin’s hand slips into her line of sight and then his fingers are tilting her chin up and he’s staring at her across the suddenly impossibly small table, handsome and warm and with that light shining in his face.

 

“Don’t.” Thorin’s voice rumbles, his eyes are even more gorgeous up close and rises out of his chair to press their lips together. “You’re beautiful.” He murmurs against her mouth. “Absolutely beautiful, Bilbo Baggins.”

 

Bilbo orders chicken marsala and cheesecake for dessert and Thorin’s eyes don’t leave her for the entire meal, their feet intertwined beneath the table.

 

oOo

 

There are certain things that must happen for the sake of appearances, namely the appearance of being a law-abiding member of society who actually works for a living rather than simply transferring around funds from three different Swiss bank accounts. Especially since Bilbo might be kind of, sort of dating a law enforcement official.

                                               

Not that they talk about “it” because that would be the grown-up thing to do and they’re both far too immature for that. It might be because Bilbo can’t ever be completely honest with Thorin, can’t tell him that she’s the cause of about half a dozen of those open cases sitting on his desk at work, can’t tell him almost anything about her past that isn’t a lie. It might also be the times she catches Thorin watching her, speculative and suspicious like she’s a puzzle he’s trying to work out.

 

But regardless of her emotional issues there are things that must happen in Bilbo’s life: namely off-loading a small warehouse worth of stolen goods to trusted fences followed secondly by finding a job. These are all things that require far more flying than someone with a small child can realistically do. As a result, Freia spends quite a lot of time at Nori’s and Bilbo gets lots of pictures of Nori playing dress-up with her life-sized doll.

 

Unsurprisingly, Bilbo has to doctor her resume and even then, she hears ‘overqualified’ more often than not. After the fourth interview goes sour, Bilbo gives serious consideration to day drinking. It’s the fifth interview that pushes that dream into reality. Dwalin watches the kids while she and Nori drink so much Bilbo feels the hangover for _days_ afterwards. Then when the hangover has finally died, Thorin smugly presents her with the drunken texts she’d sent him and the headache returns.

 

As if sensing her anguish—it’s currently angst, but sliding quickly into anguish every time another HR director looks up from her resume with _that_ look—Bifur shows up in New York four days into the job search, grunts something indecipherable in Welsh, and takes Freia out for ice cream, leaving Bilbo facedown on the couch, clutching a bottle of cream soda, her third of the day. She eats her feelings and mopes a lot and tries to avoid everyone, which doesn’t work very well because she has Freia and Nori and now Dwalin and Thorin and they’re unwilling to let her stew in her own misery.

 

Over Skype, Bo offers up a heist in Milan and quickly retracts it when Nori pops up behind Bilbo and glares so sharply she almost puts holes in the computer screen. Bilbo resigns herself to a life of pretending to be an out of work librarian on Thursday and buys herself a stuffed cat so that she’ll have something to keep her company when Freia grows up and goes off to college.

 

Luckily (and unbeknownst) to Bilbo, the Universe (and her friends) works in mysterious ways. The bookshop is a godsend and a miracle all at once and Bilbo should be suspicious, but for once in her life she’s not.

 

Bilbo is on a mission from Nori to find a very specific book for Ori’s eighth birthday when the white haired man behind the counter offers her a job out of the blue. She turns to look behind her, sees no one and turns back to find the man watching her, amused.

 

“Yes, sweetheart. You.” Bilbo blinks at the endearment, wondering why she thinks that he looks familiar, those light blue eyes sparkling with ill-disguised humor. “Do you see another out of work librarian floating around here?”

 

Bilbo is so startled by the Karnak impression that she says yes without considering the strangeness of the offer until the next day when she finds out that the sweet white-haired man behind the counter is Dwalin’s big brother and that Nori fails at subtle on her best days.

 

Dwalin doesn’t say anything when Bilbo marches into the apartment after her first day of work and punches Nori in the arm hard enough to bruise. Dwalin laughs until she punches him too and then the amusement is for an entirely different reason as she shakes her aching hand.

 

Thorin just looks at her like she’s lost her mind.

 

Bilbo does _not_ punch him.

 

But she thinks about it because she knows he’s not entirely innocent in this.

 

oOo

 

Nori comes back from Milan with a limp and bruises placed in just such a manner as to indicate that someone has thrown her against a wall a few times. Dwalin looks positively thunderous as he helps her into the apartment, both he and Thorin looming protectively over the redhead. There are looks exchanged—looks that exclude Bilbo—and files are tucked away into Thorin’s bag and a general sense of cover-up pervades the house within five minutes of the Interpol trio being home.

 

The kids buy the story about tripping over a kitten and falling down the stairs and coo over the picture that Nori provides on her phone as evidence.

 

Bilbo is not as easily taken in.

 

“That must have been a pretty ferocious cat,” Bilbo says from the doorway and Dwalin jumps, spilling his Coke all over the kitchen counter. She could pretend that the guilt comes from the illicit soft drink and not the woman that they both care about.

 

“Bilbo,” she’s timed this just perfectly: Thorin’s out of the apartment with the kids for a park trip and Nori’s pain meds have kicked in, leaving her drooling on the couch in front of an episode of ‘The Real Housewives of Dallas’. “You can’t ask questions about this.” Bilbo blinks a little at the intensity of the statement as Dwalin mops up his spilled mess.

 

“I’m not stupid, Dwalin.” Bilbo hesitates, still not completely clear on what Nori has and hasn’t told him. “Who was it?” Dwalin’s massive shoulders are taut with tension as he stares down at the sticky paper towels in his hands, swirling in circles over the countertop, not really cleaning anything.

 

“Bilbo,” he glances over his shoulder and for the first time ever, they’re cold and distant and as professional as she’s ever seen them. “You are treading on very thin ice right now in regards to what I’m willing to let slide as both your friend and Nori’s partner.” The word partner and all its implications hurt, but Bilbo doesn’t flinch, much as she wants to.

 

“Who was it, Dwalin? She’s got enemies, I know she told you about her past.” Bilbo presses, unwilling to back down. The giant man looks torn between professionalism and something else, something that Bilbo thinks is the overwhelming urge to protect the woman he loves.

 

“Look, it’s not just me, Bilbo. Nori wants you as far out of this as you can possibly get. There are-” Dwalin starts and is abruptly cut off by the front door opening and the onslaught of small children. Thorin enters the kitchen a few moments later with Freia in his arms, the remnants of an ice cream cone smeared across her face.

 

Thorin doesn’t say anything, but his sharp blue gaze takes in everything and Bilbo isn’t naïve enough to believe that he misses the tension in the room.

 

oOo

 

Bilbo is avoiding both the birthday cake and her (maybe) boyfriend by hiding out on the roof. Smoke curls from the cigarette between her fingers as she stares out at the Manhattan skyline, nerves knotting deep in her stomach. Her phone lies next to her, screen dark now that her conversation with Bo is done.

 

It wasn’t an easy call and it’s part of the reason Bilbo’s on the roof and not bringing her special brand of miserable to the party downstairs. And contrary to what Nori might say, it has nothing to do with the dozen children under the age of 11, hyped up on cake and soda racing through the loft. No, Bilbo’s bad mood has far more to do with a past that is desperate trying to drag her down.

 

_“You’ve got to get out of tone, Bilbo. He’s going to find you.”_

 

At least she understands now why Dwalin hadn’t wanted to talk, why Nori had been playing things so close to the chest. Bilbo runs a hand through her hair, grasping at the wild curls with a huff of irritation, her bare foot tapping a nervous rhythm against the tar. It’s going good. Great. It’s going _great_. And now… she can see it all slipping through her fingers: Freia, this calm and uneventful life that she’s actually enjoying, Thorin, even Nori.

 

The rooftop door opens, the crunch of gravel under a heavy boot. Bilbo doesn’t move other than to stub out her cigarette, hoping whoever it is won’t come around the pile of ductwork that she’s hiding behind. Maybe another parent sneaking a cigarette before plunging back into the fray.

 

“Yeah, I’m alone,” it’s Thorin’s voice and Bilbo stills on instinct, barely breathing, not wanting to eavesdrop but not wanting to alert him to her presence. “Did they confirm it? The Dragon’s back?” the name sends shivers down Bilbo’s back, the very real combination of terror and memory.

 

The Dragon—known to a select few as Smaug—has returned from his mysterious absence, announced by the brutal theft of a Faberge egg in Chicago, the owner brutally murdered in the process. Bilbo has history with this terrifying criminal—Bo’s warning call has preempted any of the surprise that might come from Thorin’s words—and she’s in no rush to renew the acquaintance.

 

“Dwalin’s at his son’s birthday party. I don’t want to pull him in on this yet, not until we’ve got solid confirmation.” The rest of his words are lost in a gust of wind from the street below and Bilbo stares off into the distance, lost in memories of times best left behind. At least, she is until she suddenly realizes the eerie quiet of the rooftop and the intensity of someone’s gaze.

 

Thorin is leaning over the side of the air conditioning unit, his eyes sharp and forceful and Bilbo yelps in surprise, scrambling backward despite herself. It doesn’t really become a retreat until he gives chase, until Bilbo’s back is pressed against the brick-stack of the chimney, staring up into the face of the man who knows her and at the same time is completely unaware of her. He looms over her, his dark hair ruffled by the wind. This is Thorin the Interpol Agent, not the man who bought her an ice cream in the park yesterday and watched intently when she ended up having to lick the majority of the melting treat off her fingers.

 

“Eavesdropping, Bilbo?” Thorin nearly purrs, his hands planted firmly on either side of her head, close enough for Bilbo to smell the ginger ale on his breath. Unable to speak, she shakes her head, desperately trying to recall the calm and steady manner in which she’d performed her heists, the command over her muscles, the grace and dexterity she knew she had. But Thorin is standing very close and he’s very warm and very big and Bilbo is very, very distracted by the thick muscles of his biceps. He’s aware of it, the effect he’s having on her, his expression morphing from fierce to contemplative to smug.

 

Bastard.

 

This is a new Thorin and she doesn’t know what to do with him, outside of a few ideas that might get them in trouble with a children’s birthday party below.

 

“Problem, Bilbo?” his voice drops to a completely different register one that vibrates all the way down to her toes and she shivers. They’re so close that it would only take one sweep of movement to press her mouth to his, the rest of them pressed together in a line from chest to knee. She shakes her head again, just barely managing not to leap out of her skin when one of his hands leaves the wall and brushes the hair out of her face, tracing her jaw with his thumb. A noise—not quite a whimper, not a moan—escape Bilbo’s mouth, her eyelids fluttering as he moves closer, their breath mixing between them.

 

God, she wants him to kiss her, to just bridge that final distance and press his mouth to hers.

 

“Bilbo?” Thorin asks, sounding as wrecked as she feels. She hmms softly, turning into the hand that skims down the length of her neck, not sure when anyone had touched her like she might break, like she was delicate and beautiful and something to be cherished. Maybe never. He’s going to kiss her and she’s going to let him.

 

“What do you know about Smaug?” the words are like ice water in her veins and her eyes fly open, angry in zero-to-sixty. To his credit, Thorin doesn’t react when she pushes him away, doesn’t try to draw her back or corner her again. He just stands there, hands at his sides, blank-faced, his eyes looking just over her shoulder, not looking _at_ her.

 

Bilbo backs away across the rooftop, reverting to old ways, keeping an eye on exits and possible traps, which is not what she should have to do because this is _Thorin_ , the man who has been her Prince Charming, who has made her feel wanted for the first time in a long time. As if sensing her emotional turmoil, he takes a step towards her but Bilbo flings up a hand, trying to ignore the tremble in her fingers. He stops. Hurt replaces the anger almost instantly, tearing at her insides and making her want to scream and cry and stomp her feet.

 

“Stay away from me,” Bilbo snaps, furious at him, at herself, at the situation. Heartbroken is a description for another time. “Stay the hell away from me, Thorin.” She flees the rooft on a muffled sob, one that she just barely manages to choke back before she calms herself and walks back into the penthouse.

 

Her acting skills aren’t quite up to par for the ruse she’s trying to pull off, but Nori doesn’t question it when Bilbo gathers up Freia and begs off opening presents because she has a headache, a headache that becomes reality when she has to extract Freia from Kíli.

 

Thorin comes in just as Bilbo is carrying her sobbing niece away and their eyes meet for a split second across the crowded room.

 

She doesn’t know what to make of the strained expression on his face, but it’s all she can think about as she drives back to her apartment, analyzing it from every angle as she tucks Freia into bed, dissecting it as she crawls into her own bed and finally falls asleep with tears trickling down her cheeks.


	8. Steal My Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo is thumping new paperbacks onto the shelf with a violence that she usually reserves for recalcitrant safes when Dwalin looms around the edge of the bookshelf, big and threatening in his civvies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: May trigger! There's some violence against women in this chapter and non-consensual kissing. If this is in any way distressing for you, please avoid.
> 
>  
> 
> This fic is coming to an end soon, but I promise this isn't the end of the Interpol 'verse because these characters are far too fun to write :). Also many many thanks to the incredibly kind comments and kudos given to me by you my lovely readers! You guys are awesome.

* * *

**Chapter 8- Steal My Kisses (Because you won’t let me steal anything else)**

 

Bilbo is thumping new paperbacks onto the shelf with a violence that she usually reserves for recalcitrant safes when Dwalin looms around the edge of the bookshelf, big and threatening in his civvies. Swallowing the shriek that almost slips out at his sudden appearance, Bilbo shoves the last copy of _Game of Thrones_ into place and grabs the next pile of books out of the box. With a very deliberate movement of her head, she turns her face away from him and begins to put the books on the shelf, ignoring the giant as pointedly as she can.

 

Nori has called her nearly 27 times, but Bilbo has deleted each and every voicemail without listening to it.

 

Thorin hasn’t called once.

 

Not that she’s keeping track or anything.

 

Dwalin settles a shoulder against the shelf beside her, leaning and looming. Out of the corner of her eyes, Bilbo can see the unimpressed twist of his mouth.

 

“Your touch was much lighter when you lifted that engraving from the Kabul museum last year.” The statement sounds far more threatening than it should in that familiar Scottish brogue. The copy of _50 Shades of Gray_ in Bilbo’s hand misses the shelf, surprise ruining the movement and her knuckles rap sharply against the wooden edge.

 

Wincing, Bilbo glances up at the intimidatingly large man, one of her feet already starting to slide backwards in automatic retreat, ready to run, thinking about the go bags she has packed in her entryway closet for both her and Freia. They’ll go to Sweden, hop-skip across Europe for a bit until she can get them the right paperwork to disappear into the bustle of an anonymous city where-

 

“That’s what I thought,” Dwalin says, his gaze attentive even as his mouth twists into a genuine smile. Bilbo watches him, the casual stance, feet planted firmly on the floor, giving off every outward sign possible of not being threatening. “Thought you might try and run,” Panic flickers through Bilbo as he continues. “So I brought back-up.” Dwalin gestures at someone behind Bilbo and she whirls to meet her opponent who turns out to be 4 foot nothing with big brown eyes and a wobbly lower lip.

 

“You are a manipulative bastard,” Bilbo says without any real heat twenty minutes later, Ori seated in her lap at the café down the street from the shop, tearing a chocolate croissant apart with enthusiasm while he watches Scooby Doo on her iPhone. Dwalin sits across from her, elbows resting on the tabletop, his gaze speculative over the top of his coffee mug.

 

“You’re breaking my best friend’s heart.” Comes the reply, a shrug in his tone of voice. “Had to do somethin’.”

 

Bilbo puts her hands over Ori’s ears even though he’s so lost in the world of fake ghosts and talking dogs that she could scream and he wouldn’t so much as twitch. “Your best friend is a fucking twat.” Ori shrugs her hands off a second later, chocolate smeared all down the front of his Brontosaurus t-shirt.

 

“He can be an idiot, I’ll give you that,” Dwalin says with an affirming nod, big hands wrapping around his mug. “But he’s a good man all the same and I’ve never seen him as miserable as he is right now. ” Ori blindly offers up a piece of croissant and Bilbo automatically opens her mouth to accept it. She doesn’t know how to reply to Dwalin’s statement, the anger and hurt still too fresh in her memory.

 

“So Smaug’s back?” Bilbo switches the topic, not wanting to talk about the man who has pulled the rug out from under her in more ways than one, not wanting to admit to something that she refuses to allow herself to think about. Dwalin’s eyes narrow, but he allows the conversational change, giving her a run down of the thief’s movements since the theft of the egg. There’s a lot of information that she doesn’t have, information that she needs so she can pass it along to Bo who is still out there somewhere with no one watching her back.

 

“The strange thing is we were pretty sure he died ten years ago in a fire in Prague.” Dwalin says, twirling his now empty mug in his hands. “Dental records matched. And he’s been off the grid for so long that everyone just started assuming.” Bilbo shakes her head, trying to get Ori to hold still long enough to wipe the chocolate off his hands. He fights her, but it’s no different than dealing with a tangled line while abseiling and she winds her way through his defenses, using the glass of water at her elbow to dampen the napkin. Freia has taught her a lot.

 

“Of course you did. Smaug’s smarter than you give him credit for.” Ori whips his head to the side and chocolate smears across the front of Bilbo’s green button down. She sighs, dips the napkin again and continues her work. “Right now the only thing you have going for you is that he’s just come back onto the scene and the new kids don’t have any idea who they’re going up against. The urban legend isn’t nearly as terrifying as the man himself and they’ve never seen him at work.”

 

“You have.” Dwalin remarks casually. Bilbo glares over the top of Ori’s head. He shrugs and Bilbo realizes that Nori’s share and tell session with the man may have extended past that singular day oh so long ago.

 

“Yeah and it got me 140 stitches and three weeks in a hospital burn unit.” Bilbo says, moving her cappuccino out of Ori’s grasp when he aims for his hot chocolate and misses. “I was lucky. Smaug was after someone else.” Memory assaults her, the burn of the handtorch on her ribs, the agony of physical therapy as she tried to make her body operate correctly again. Smaug had let her live, but he’d made damn sure she remembered him. Her expression must change to match the horror of the memory because one of Dwalin’s massive hands curls over hers, squeezing reassuringly.

 

Ori’s excellent timing saves Bilbo from blurting out something stupid, like turning the conversation back to Thorin again.

 

“Can I have a cookie?” the little boy asks innocently, a smudge of chocolate still on the side of his nose. Bilbo laughs and kisses him on the top of his head. It’s not until they’re outside the bookshop, Ori having vanished inside to look for his Uncle Balin that Dwalin brings up Thorin again.

 

“Call him, Bilbo. He’s sorry, he just doesn’t know how to say it.” Bilbo looks up, up into warm blue eyes and thinks maybe she understands just a little how her ex-girlfriend fell in love with this BFG.

 

“I don’t know if I can, Dwalin.” She says, staring at the toes of her shoes.

 

“Bilbo,” Dwalin steps closer, settles one big hand on her shoulder. “Thorin is an idiot in so many different ways, but who isn’t when it comes to love?”

 

They both pretend she’s not a little teary-eyed when he hugs her goodbye.

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you the reason I’m incapable of having a grown-up relationship?” Bilbo asks, not even giving her father a chance to answer the phone properly. “Because if this is all your fault, I want you to know that I’m having negative thoughts about you and I will not even think twice about-”

 

“Willhemina,” her father’s voice is soothing even with thousands of miles between them and Bilbo suddenly finds herself blinking back tears as she stares at her living room ceiling. Freia is tucked away in bed and Bilbo is wallowing on the couch. “Darling, do you need me to validate you as a human being, as a grown-up or as a woman?”

 

“All three?” Bilbo is mortified when the words come out on a half-sob.

 

Her father shows up in New York two days later and Bilbo hugs him at the airport, buries her face in his cardigan, and just clings. He cooks dinner and reads Freia at least seven bedtime stories and when they finally get the little girl to go to sleep, he sits Bilbo down on the couch, hands her a glass of red wine, and gives her an expectant look.

 

Bilbo spills everything: Thorin, Smaug, Nori and Dwalin, the fear of her past colliding with her future. By the end of the conversation, she’s emotionally worn out and curled up beside her father, dried tear tracks on her face. He gently kisses her on the top of the head and tells her to stop being ridiculous because she’s absolutely perfect and sends her to bed.

 

Gandalf sticks around for the rest of the week, makes dinner and packs her lunch for work and takes Freia all around the city, and Bilbo breathes easily for a few days knowing that her father is there as her backup…

 

…until he brings Nori and Co. home with him one evening.

 

“You’re avoiding me,” Nori says after she’s punched Bilbo in the arm, harder than is absolutely necessary. Bilbo hides behind her father, rubbing the sore spot on her bicep and watches the horde of under-10 monsters take over her living room with sleeping bags and superhero-themed backpacks.

 

“Your boyfriend’s nicer than you,” Bilbo says and goes to get the junk food because the kids deserve it after living in the organic nuthouse that Nori’s been running.

 

It’s later after the children are all sacked out on the living room floor and Gandalf has retired for the evening that Nori slips into Bilbo’s bedroom.

 

“Budge,” Nori says and promptly steals more than her fair share of the covers, forcing Bilbo to curl closer or risk hypothermia. They arrange themselves in a familiar tangle of limbs, both heads on one pillow and then Nori nudges Bilbo with her knee.

 

“I don’t want to talk about it, Nori.” Bilbo murmurs, eyes firmly shut. Nori sighs, ruffling Bilbo’s hair with the exhalation.

 

“You’re gonna have to talk about it at some point or another, Bee-Bo.” Nori says, tightening her grip around Bilbo’s waist. “Both of you idiots are.” Bilbo closes her eyes and tries to ignore the uncomfortable knot in her gut.

 

Bilbo is just about to drift off when she hears Nori whisper. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but just say the word, Bee-Bo and I’ll kick his ass.”

 

The corners of Bilbo’s mouth twitch up as she finally falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

“Theoretically, say I wanted to talk about it. Theoretically, say I was considering an apology by way of a grand gesture.” Bilbo has a grocery basket in one hand, the phone tucked between her shoulder and ear and the other hand firmly gripping the back of Freia’s jumper as the three-year-old tries to snag a box of Captain Crunch off the shelf.

 

Bilbo comes to a few realizations over the last two days. (1) She’s (probably) fallen for a White Hat. (2) She’s absolute crap at relationships and all that entails. And (3) grocery shopping with anyone under the age of 18 is an absolute nightmare.

 

“Well, a: you’re not really the one who needs to apologize in this instance and b: your grand gestures kinda suck.” Nori’s voice crackles on the line, a chorus of voices in the background singing ‘I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts’ in a deafening chorus.

 

“My grand gestures do not suck!” Bilbo protests, pulling Freia away from the cereal and ignoring the resulting cry of displeasure. “I stole the Tsarina’s tiara for your anniversary present.”

 

“Yeah and I got to wear it while I nursed you back to health. Very sexy, you coughing and puking and spreading bodily fluids all over.” Nori’s amused and Bilbo’s having sensory memory of puking while trying to sneeze at the same time and feeling a little green about the gills. She sticks out her tongue and makes a face that earns a shriek of laughter from her captive.

 

“I said I was sorry about that,” Bilbo mutters, Freia distracted by a gallon jar of pickles, her little marker stained fingers trying to get a grip on the glass that will allow her to bring the entire thing crashing down.

 

“Yes and I said ‘that’s nice, sweetheart; this dating thing isn’t working out. Want to be friends instead?’ That’s worked out much better for us, I feel. Romance isn’t really your wheelhouse, Baggins.” The music in the background swells to a fever pitch and she can just barely pick out Fíli’s slightly deeper voice above the other two. Bilbo cringes as her eardrum literally vibrates.

 

“ _Oi!_ Cut it out or it’s nothing but asparagus for dinner!” Nori yells without warning and Bilbo has to let go of Freia to wrench the phone away from her ear. As if fired from a cannon, the little girl takes off down the aisle at top speed, making airplane sounds.

 

“Can I call you back?” Nori and Bilbo ask at the same time and then hang up without answering the other one. Something crashes on the next aisle over, followed by a wail of monumental proportions. Bilbo sighs, pockets her phone, and goes to dig Freia out from under a pile of Rice-a-roni boxes.

 

* * *

 

 

“Sex?” Bo suggests during an unannounced stopover on Tuesday night, headed to some unspecified location as far away from the last known sighting of Smaug as possible. Bilbo looks up from the tomato she’s chopping, knife stilling so she won’t lop off a finger.

 

Bo hasn’t said a word about Smaug, but her smile is pinched and she hasn’t relaxed all night long, always keeping an eye on the exits. Bilbo has her own scars from Smaug, but she knows that the ones he left on Bo aren’t all visible.

 

“What just offer myself up? Maybe a whip-cream bikini?” Bo rolls her eyes at the sarcasm, some sort of ridiculous hat perched atop her long black hair. Out in the living room where the Wiggles are singing about toothbrushes, Freia wears a similar hat atop her unruly hair and has yanked the earflaps down so that she can barely see out from under the furry brim.

 

“I recall being forced to listen to several conversations between you and Nori about various things that could be licked off your bodies,” Bo says, dark eyebrows furrowing in remembered displeasure. “That strikes me as the kind of thing someone like Thorin might find more enjoyable.” There’s a faintly churlish note to her friend’s voice and Bilbo arches an eyebrow at the first spark of life in her friend since she landed in New York.

 

“Been a while since someone dusted off the cobwebs, Bo-Bo?” Bilbo asks with a wicked grin and watches in satisfaction as a red flush spreads across Bo’s face, wiping away her smile.

 

“Shut up,” Bo mumbles, giving the pasta on the stove a vicious stir and avoiding eye contact. Bilbo rolls her eyes and goes back to the tomatoes.

 

Bo’s gone the next morning and so is an emerald-studded choker from the New York Museum of Natural History. Bilbo avoids Nori for a few days afterwards, just to be on the safe side.

 

* * *

 

 

Radagast is the next drop-in, not two days after Bo departs, a hand-carved wooden bear for Freia in the bottom of his bag and a hand-written note from Gandalf about the Louvre’s new pressure sensitive flooring in the restoration room should she need to relieve any twitchy fingers.

 

It’s probably not the original intention of the note, but the seed of an idea takes root and Bilbo begins to plan.

 

* * *

 

 

The newspaper headline screams ‘Stolen Gem Returned’ in the largest print available, over a picture of the famed Arkenstone in the hands of the museum curator. It’s a full-page article about the reverse-theft on the front of the Times, but Bilbo doesn’t need to read it. It’s the grandest gesture she can think of, returning the first item that had landed her on Thorin’s radar and kicked off their two-year long game of cat-and-mouse and even though she still doesn’t know exactly how much he knows about her, she hopes he’ll understand.

 

Right now, though, Bilbo is sprawled on the couch, the heating pad wrapped around her aching knee, drifting in a light doze. Freia is at Nori’s for the night, Bilbo has the next two days off at work, and a small stack of trashy romance novels on the kitchen table to pick through when she feels like it. It’s shaping up to be a good night, so it’s only natural that someone should interrupt. Jerked out of her daze by the rap of knuckles on wood, Bilbo grumbles under her breath as she unwinds herself from the heating pad, fully prepared to be less than pleasant if it’s one of the newlyweds from down the hall asking another ridiculous question about the washing machines downstairs.

 

The last person Bilbo is expecting at her front door is the most wanted jewel thief in the world.

 

“Hello, _Bee-Bo_ ,” the borrowed nickname rankles almost as much as the confidence with which Smaug pushes past her into the apartment, the fabric black coat sweeping across her body. The panic in her chest comes out of her mouth as attitude.

 

“What do you want, Smaug?” Bilbo doesn’t move from the door, watching the man prowl around her living room. Freia’s little wooden bear lies on the floor in front of the TV and he nudges it with a booted foot, upper lip curling ever so slightly. Bilbo doesn’t know why the sight sends a shiver down her back, fear making her throat dry.

 

It’s been five years since they were last face to face and Smaug still looks the same: dangerous, sleek and beautiful, the sheen of his expensive coat gleaming in the dull light of the lamp. Bilbo wonders where he’s been, what has kept him out of the business for so long, wonders where those white scars peeking out from under his black t-shirt came from and who gave them to him.

 

“Where’s Bo, Bilbo?” Smaug asks as he settles on the arm of the couch, his hazel eyes glinting cruelly in the low light, arms folding over his chest. He could be hiding an entire arsenal in the folds of that black coat and she’d never know it, but then again, Smaug had never needed weapons to inflict pain.

 

He just enjoyed them.

 

Once upon a time, Bilbo had thought Smaug was handsome with his dark curls and razor-sharp cheekbones. Bo and Smaug had been a striking couple, her warm smile and his sneer somehow managing to work together… at first. The jealousy and greed had come later, Bo’s usually cheerful face grimacing in pain as Bilbo patched her up after an “argument”.

 

“I don’t know.” It’s the truth, but Smaug is distrustful at the best of times and this is not one of those times. His nostrils flare and his eyes narrow, but that cruel smile never fades. Bilbo braces herself for the explosion.

 

He doesn’t move and that is more terrifying than if he’d screamed and shouted and thrown things. This is a new Smaug and something tells her that this incarnation is even more dangerous than the last one.

 

“One more chance, Burglar; where is she?” Bilbo can run, be out the door and to the stairwell in a matter of seconds but she’s tired, tired of her old life encroaching on her new one, of having to choose between the two. Besides, she knows he won’t stop and the next time it will be far worse than polite threats and pointed looks.

 

“ _I_. _Don’t_. _Know_.” Bilbo says slowly and deliberately, never breaking eye contact. Smaug raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with the display of bravado. He stands after a moment, stretching sinuously, his eyes never leaving her. Bilbo forces herself to stand still as he approaches, circling like a shark.

 

Bilbo’s back and head crack sharply against the wall as he pins her without warning, one hand grasping her throat, forcing her to look him in the eyes. His other hand strokes down her side, over the scars that remain from their last encounter, a caress that becomes an assault, his fingers digging into the skin. She winces, but can’t move, hemmed in by his greater size and strength.

 

“Bilbo Baggins,” his breath is hot and sharp with a cinnamon taint that feels like it’s burning her skin. “Do you think it’s a good idea to lie to me? To the Dragon?” there’s a manic gleam in his eyes and Bilbo realizes that Smaug’s previously tenuous grip on reality has snapped, a while ago by the looks of it.

 

“I’m not lying, Smaug,” she chokes, the edge of his thumb digging into her windpipe, disturbing her words. Black dots dance in her vision. “I don’t… know where she is.” He rubs his cheek against her hair, inhaling deeply like he’s memorizing her scent. Bilbo trembles.

 

“You’re frightened of me,” the iron grip on her throat releases up suddenly and Bilbo coughs, inhaling as deeply as her aching throat will allow. “Oh, that’s good, little Burglar. You _should_ be.” It’s a promise, murmured intimately against her ear. Fear almost knocks Bilbo’s legs out from under her, the pressure of Smaug’s body the only thing keeping her upright. He falls silent, watching her face intently, staring down at her with those crazed eyes like he can read the truth in the curve of her mouth or the space between her eyes.

 

“Where were you?” The question slips out before Bilbo can stop herself and once she’s started it’s impossible to stop. “All those years, Smaug. Where did you go?” one of those graceful hands lifts again, eerily gentle as it strokes her cheek, reaches around to grasp the back of her neck, tipping her head back.

 

“Hell,” Smaug whispers against the curve of her jaw, his breath ghosting across her skin as he maneuvers her head around, kisses her, deep and slow and with all the affection of a lover. “I was in hell,” he whispers against her mouth. Bilbo stands frozen, unable to push him away, afraid of the consequences if she does.

 

“If I find out you lied, Burglar,” Smaug leans back to look down into her face, brushing a curl from her forehead. “I will burn your entire world down around you.” He smiles then, sharp and nasty, tightens his grip on her neck. “And I’ll start with the owner of that adorable little wooden bear.”

 

Her front door clicks shut behind the thief, but Bilbo doesn’t move, can’t move, until her knee twinges in complaint and she stumbles back to the couch, shaking with fear and adrenaline. She doesn’t realize she’s picked up her phone until the weight in her hand registers and she sees that her fingers have, independent of her brain, selected Thorin’s name from her contacts.

 

Bilbo presses the call button before common sense can prevail. There are two rings and then Thorin’s gruff voice answers cautiously, “Bilbo?”

 

The Burglar bursts into tears.

 


	9. Take the Money and Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin makes it to her apartment in less than eighteen minutes, impressive given the time of day and the amount of traffic on the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the epilogue left! I can't believe that I wrote something this long or this rom-com cliche, but I did and I'm a little bit in love with it. Don't worry though, y'all, because this 'verse is far from done.

* * *

**Chapter 9- Take the Money and Run (No, seriously… run!)**

 

Thorin makes it to her apartment in less than eighteen minutes, impressive given the time of day and the amount of traffic on the road. Bilbo can’t focus on the amazingness of the feat for long though because the front door is opening and Thorin’s booming voice is calling her name and suddenly he’s there, big and solid. She’s curled into a corner of the couch, facing the door, arms wrapped around her knees, still shaking with adrenaline. He hesitates by the door, his gaze sweeping over her and the room, expression thunderous.

 

“Thorin?” Bilbo's voice quavers despite her best efforts and he visibly jolts, body flexing as if the sound of her voice is a physical blow.

 

“I need to check the apartment,” His tone indicates that it’s not a suggestion. Bilbo presses her forehead to her knees as she listens to him walk through the rest of the apartment, opening and closing doors. _Safe_ , her mind whispers, _you’re safe now. Thorin's here._

 

“Bilbo,” gentle though it is, the sudden voice makes Bilbo jump. She looks up to find Thorin slowly moving across the living room, gaze intent on her and then he’s slipping on the couch and pulling her into his lap. She goes willingly, all cried out, now just tired and scared and desperate for contact from someone who won’t hurt her.

 

“Shhh,” the press of lips against her forehead is gentle and gone far too quickly. One of his arms curves possessively around her waist, holding her gently, the antithesis of Smaug’s grip. Bilbo presses her face into the side of Thorin’s neck and breathes in his scent, soap and clean sweat and comfort.

 

“Smaug was here,” she whispers, clinging now, fingers clenched deep in the black t-shirt. Judging by the sudden tension in the body under her hands, the implications of the visit are clearly recognized.

 

“Let me see,” Thorin commands. Under her ear, the voice is a volcanic rumble, but Bilbo shakes her head, panic welling sharply at the thought of letting him see, the possibility that he might leave to pursue her attacker. The man holding her radiates warmth and safety she doesn’t want to think about Smaug’s insanity or the deadly pressure of his fingers against her throat.

 

“Bilbo,” the command is gone, his tone gentler like she’s a skittish animal. “Let me see, sweetheart. I need-” he stops and she feels his chest expand with a deep breath. “I need to make sure you’re all right.” There’s something in his voice, a pleading note that makes Bilbo lean back, lets him carefully tilt her head so he can inspect her face, the length of her throat.

 

“He’s looking for someone. He thought I knew where she is.” Thorin’s face is tense as he lets got of her face,  his grip on her waist tightening infinitesimally. Bilbo wants to hide from that look, from the sheer intensity of it and she presses her face against the solid wall of his chest, curling her hands into fists in his t-shirt.

 

“Thorin… he threatened to hurt Freia.” The tears that were all but gone rise to the surface and her steadying breath shudders in the middle, chin trembling.

 

“It’s all right, Bilbo. It’s all right, my little burglar.” Thorin murmurs into her hair and that promise of protection, of safety is all it takes for the tears to fall again. "I'll protect you."

 

* * *

 

Nori takes one look at Bilbo when Thorin ushers her through the door and promptly takes charge of the situation, leading Bilbo past the looming guard of Dwalin and a tall dark haired man with warm green eyes in an expensive suit. Thorin peels off there in the entryway, huddling with the two other men and beginning to whisper in hushed tones as Nori takes Bilbo away.

 

Bilbo finds herself stripped in the master bathroom and pushed into the shower where the water beats down from the specialty showerhead that she would enjoy if it were any other time. It says a lot about that their friendship that Nori doesn’t even give it two minutes of Bilbo just standing there under the spray before she strips down, climbs into the shower and proceeds to clean Bilbo like she’s a small child.

 

“Think you can at least dress yourself, Princess?” the mocking tone finally snaps Bilbo back to life in the quiet of the master bedroom and she snatches the proffered clothes from Nori with a scowl. It’s harsh, but it does the trick and Bilbo pulls herself together in the space of stepping into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt.

 

“Thanks,” Bilbo says, tightening the drawstring on the sweats, which are about a foot too long and way too big around the waist. She thinks they might be Dwalin’s. Nori smiles at her, holds open her arms with an exaggerated flutter of her eyelashes.

 

“Aw, come here, Bee-Bo.” Bilbo rolls her eyes and punches her ex-girlfriend instead.

 

**

 

“Bilbo, meet Bard Bowman. Bard, meet my best friend, Bilbo.” Nori says, plunking down a mug of hot chocolate in front of Bilbo at the kitchen island and stepping back, folding her arms across her chest. The mysterious man in the designer suit from before smiles at Bilbo across the island and it’s devastating, all glistening white teeth and sultry intent. Bilbo blinks a little under the onslaught.

 

“Cool the charm, Romeo.” Nori says even though she’s smiling, practically plastering herself against the newcomer’s side with another bat of her eyelashes. Bard looks amused. “She’s spoken for.” Bilbo glares at her ex and wraps her hands around the mug of cocoa. Someone actually has to say something before she’s spoken for and she and Thorin haven't spoken since that night on the roof.

 

“Bard works for MI6. Practically James Bond himself.” Nori says, glancing at something over Bilbo’s shoulder. Bilbo doesn’t even have to turn to know that Dwalin and Thorin have entered the room, their larger than life personalities filling the kitchen. Once it would have made her feet claustrophobic, now she's just happy to have someone between her and whatever threat might come through the door.

 

“James Bond never looked this good,” Bard says without a touch of humility, adjusting the black tie knotted perfectly around his neck and despite her recent brush with danger and the ensuing influx of emotions, Bilbo laughs. Bard grins, an expression which abruptly freezes as a hand settles on the back of Bilbo’s neck, Thorin sliding into her personal space without a hint of hesitancy. Bard’s sharp green gaze flicks between the two of them for a moment and his smile loses some of its wattage. Bilbo is too busy reveling in the warmth radiating from Thorin to bristle at the blatant display of possessiveness. She'll take any kind of comfort with no questions asked right now.

 

“So, the Dragon is back in town.” Bard changes the subject as smoothly as can be expected under the circumstances and Bilbo’s heart double-thumps as the events earlier in the evening begin to play in her mind again. Thorin’s thumb begins to rub circles on the back of her neck, slow and steady and soothing.

 

“He’s looking for an acquaintance of mine.” Beside Bard, Nori’s jaw clenches and she meets Bilbo’s gaze as she slides away from the government agent. The silent  conversation is brief, but Bard doesn’t miss any of it judging by the sudden quirk of his eyebrow, his gaze ping-ponging between the two fo them 

 

_Tell him, Bilbo._

_Bo’s not going to like it._

 

“Does this friend have a name?” Bard interrupts. Bilbo looks away from Nori, meets that hypnotic green gaze and takes a deep breath. A memory of Smaug’s crazed eyes flits through her memory and Bilbo fights down the shudder that accompanies it. Bo will forgive her, she knows, probably after the threat of a maniac doesn’t hang over her head. Thorin’s thumb never stops its gentle movement. 

 

Bilbo opens her mouth and starts to talk.

 

* * *

 

Bard leaves not long after Bilbo has gone through everything, Nori adding in details where necessary and after more whispered conferences at the front door with Dwalin and Thorin. Bilbo flees to the guest bedroom before either man can get back to the living room, buries herself in the comforter and pillows and pretends to be asleep when the bedroom door cracks open for a moment, holds tightly to that facade when booted feet quietly cross the room and a gentle kiss is placed on top of her head, the blankets tugged just a little higher around her shoulders.

 

When Bilbo does fall asleep, she does so with a smile.

 

Avoiding Thorin is even easier the next morning because she sleeps until nearly noon and both men are gone when she stumbles, sore and stiff, into the kitchen and the grip of four children who all want to tell her about what the monkeys did at the zoo. Of course this is followed by reenactments of the aforementioned antics. Bilbo watches blearily over the top of a huge mug of coffee as Freia clambers all over Fíli, scratching her little head and hooting at the top of her lungs.

 

“Out!” Nori orders when she comes in to see what’s happening and stiff-arms the children out into the living room, leaving Bilbo to drop her exhausted head onto the kitchen island, the same one she’d sat at the night before and given both MI6 and Interpol an open window into a world that few knew existed. The cool tile feels good against her face and she thinks it might be possible to fall asleep right then and there.

 

At least she does until Nori yanks the coffee mug out of her hand.

 

“Hey!” Bilbo protests, grabbing for the life-giving caffeine, which is now being poured down the kitchen sink. “What the hell, Nori?”

 

“ _We_ were never in love, Bilbo, so I wasn’t sure at first what that ridiculous expression was on your face last night, but I’ve thought long and hard about it and I’m pretty sure you’re on the verge of making a run for it.” Bilbo blinks at the edge in Nori’s voice and the irritated purse to her mouth.

 

“I loved you,” Bilbo protests weakly, not sure where this conversation is going other than somewhere probably not good where she will be forced to think about things that she would rather just avoid.

 

“Yeah, you loved me; you weren’t _in_ love with me.” Bilbo opens her mouth to refute that but Nori steam rolls right over the top of any words that she might hope to make. “Oh, don’t worry. The lack of ‘in’ was mutual on my part. But Thorin? He’s _in in_ love with you, Bilbo. And if you’d pull your head out of your ass, you’d realize you are too.”

 

“I know.” Clearly Bilbo’s admission of guilt is not what Nori is expecting because her mouth flops open and she drops the mug into the sink, the heavy ceramic clinking dangerously against the stainless steel, but not breaking.

 

“But- what- Bilbo!” Nori sputters, hands waving in lieu of actual sentences. Bilbo sighs heavily and buries her face in her hands.

 

“This is quite possibly the most clichéd thing to ever happen in my life.” Bilbo murmurs and peers through her fingers to stare at her best friend. “How hell did I fall in love with an Interpol agent? How the hell did _you_ fall in love with an Interpol agent?” Nori regains her equilibrium enough to join Bilbo on the kitchen stools.

 

“Well, it wasn’t like it was on purpose.” Nori says, propping her face in one hand so she can stare at Bilbo. “I didn’t wake up one morning and decide to fall for someone who can arrest me at any given moment.” Bilbo snorts.

 

“Oh, please, like Dwalin would ever arrest you. The man is head over heels for you. He would find a way to walk across water if you asked him too.” Nori flushes and her palm settles over the magpie tattoo. Bilbo barely manages not to roll her eyes, something that only manages to get her thumped on the shoulder. 

 

“And what about Thorin?” Nori turns the tables so quickly that Bilbo’s head spins, a knowing look on her face. “When you called he flew out of here so fast last night he nearly left scorch marks on the carpet.” Bilbo opens her mouth to answer when a little voice pipes up from behind them.

 

“Dad loves you. He said so to Uncle Dwalin.” Bilbo spins around so quickly that she almost falls off her stool. Fíli stands in the kitchen doorway, rubbing at his nose with the sleeve of his sweatshirt in a manner that is heart-wrenchingly adorable. His other hand is holding Freia’s as she grins unabashedly at them through a mush of goldfish crackers, the rest of the food dripping down the front of her dinosaur t-shirt.

 

“Hey, messy girl,” Nori says and slips off her stool, collecting the messy Freia and carrying her to the kitchen sink. Fíli continues to stare expectantly at Bilbo, his golden hair gleaming in the sunlight coming in the skylight above the sink.

 

“Do you love my dad?” Fíli asks with the pure innocence of a young child caught up in the politics of adult relationships. Bilbo’s blood freezes in her veins.

 

“So help me god, Wilhemina Baggins,” Nori mutters from the sink, damp washrag in one hand and a squirming toddler in the other. “If you even think about running right now, I will hunt you down myself.”

 

Usual coping techniques shot down, Bilbo squares her shoulders, takes a deep breathe and admits the truth to someone other than her favorite confidante. "I do. Is that okay with you?" Fíli's face screws up in an expression of complete concentration as he stares at her for an uncomfortably long amount of time.

 

"If you love my dad, will you still take us to the park and buy us real ice cream?" he asks and Bilbo feels the tension drain from her shoulders in a flood.

 

"Of course," she says and Fíli’s face blossoms into a wide grin and he whirls, running back out into the living room.

 

“Kíli, Ori! Bilbo’s in love with dad and she's taking us to the park for  _real_ ice cream!” Bilbo whimpers and drops her head back onto the island with a thump.

 

“Mama love,” Freia crows, clapping her hands and earning a laugh from Nori. “Mama love.”

 

“That’s right, baby girl.” Nori says and Bilbo looks up to glare balefully at her friend. “Mama’s in love.”

 

* * *

 

Despite her declaration of love, Bilbo doesn’t avoid Thorin so much as she just happens to consistently be where he’s not for the next week. She talks Balin into taking time off to work on his novel and manning the shop all on her own allows her some much-needed space to breath and just think. Freia sets up residence in the children’s corner, her newfound love of coloring the perfect thing to distract her from things like reshelving the photography section with grasping little fingers.

 

It might almost be relaxing if Bilbo wasn’t waiting for the other shoe to drop.

 

“Well, hello, darling,” And drop it does. Bilbo looks up from the accounts ledger—leave it to Balin to be that old fashioned—and meets the flirtatious green gaze of 007 himself, Bard Bowman. Freia babbles something and holds out the piece of paper she’s scribbled all over which Bard takes with all the gravitas of a man inspecting a Picasso.

 

“I find your representation of Ori compelling; very art deco.” Bard says, on one knee in his suit beside a child-sized wooden table, nodding very intently as Freia babbles and points at various points on the paper. Bilbo watches wide-eyed as Freia gives him a nose-wrinkling smile and lifts her arms in the universal signal for wanting to be picked up.

 

“Yours?” Bard asks as he approaches the register, Freia patting the vibrant paisley of his tie with sticky fingers. He looks indescribably comfortable with a child in his arms even in a suit that Bilbo recognizes as the product of a bespoke tailor.  

 

“Yes,” Bilbo says as Bard sits Freia on the counter, one of his arms automatically forming a barrier between her and the edge. She’s not sure how she’s supposed to react here, but suspicion seems like a good starting point. Bard’s face crinkles into amusement as he reads her attitude in one glance.

 

“Relax, Oaken-face and his merry band of treasure hunters don’t know I’m here.” Freia blows the man a kiss, which he catches with an exaggerated face and sticks in his pocket. His ease with the little girl makes Bilbo think that there may be more sides to Bard than the suave flirtatious front he wears like a shield.

 

“I thought you were coworkers,” Bilbo asks, moving the business cards out of Freia’s reach when she is no longer distracted by the paisley of Bard’s tie and starts grabbing for things on the counter.

 

“Co-workers, yes. Friends, not so much. You should hear some of the nicknames he has for me.” Bard says, swinging Freia up into his arms once more when she starts to fuss over being ignored for too long only for her to promptly squirm with the demand ‘down’. Bilbo’s questioning look prompts a grin that is for once not flirtatious or come-hither and she’s charmed against her will, but in no way infatuated like she suspects many women are when exposed to the full force of Bard Bowman.

 

“You’re not here just to amuse Freia,” Bilbo says, hands on her hips and arching an eyebrow at him to let him know she’s onto his game.

 

“We tracked Bo Ur to Belgium two days ago,” Bard says, leaning against the counter. “And promptly lost her the minute she got outside the train station.” Bilbo bites back a smile.

 

“And you want me to tell you where she is?” Bilbo asks, glancing up as the bell above the door jingles. It’s Mrs. McCaffrey from up the street who shops at the bookstore at least twice a week, loading herself down with tawdry romance novels and delivering gossip from her apartment building to Bilbo. Freia burbles a greeting and holds up her newest drawing for perusal. Bilbo waves hello and turns back to Bard whose smile has slipped a little.

 

“No, I want you to tell her that we also tracked Smaug to Belgium two days ago and that she needs to watch her back.” Bilbo’s heart sinks a bit and she inadvertently glances over her shoulder towards the office where a burn phone with Bo’s newest number sits in her messenger bag.

 

“Trust me?” Bard asks and Bilbo blinks her attention back to him. He’s watching her intently, every inch the secret agent that Nori described. Bilbo surprises herself by nodding without a moment's hesitation. Bard smiles, less blindingly this time.

 

“Go call her, tell her that getting the hell out of Belgium is her best bet . I’ll keep an eye on the kid and the shop.” He circles the counter, smiling at Mrs. McCaffrey who is on the approach, drawn in by the lure of a new face who hasn’t heard all about that lovely new lesbian couple in 3C.

 

“Are you going to tell me what Smaug's involved in?” Bilbo murmurs as she slips past Bard, the rich fabric of his jacket brushing her bare arm. He stops her for a moment, his hand on her hip, green gaze intent on hers.

 

“Do you really want to know, Burglar?” he asks softly. "Because I _will_ tell you." Bilbo huffs out a heavy breath and shakes her head no. Bard's face immediately melts into that flirtatious smile as he turns from her to greet Mrs. McCaffrey. Bilbo shakes her head and goes call Bo.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo goes to Nori’s the second she gets off work, filled to overflowing with gossip about Bard who had stuck around till closing and walked her to her car and worry over Bo not answering her phone during any of the five times Bilbo had called. She arrives to find a house in chaos, Nori bent over the toilet in the master bath and the three shirtless little boys in the living room playing an ear-splitting round of Beastie Boys on Guitar Hero, no Dwalin in sight.

 

“London,” Nori manages to get out between bouts of puking, paying homage to the porcelain god and Bilbo winces from the bathroom doorway. There’s more of an explanation in there, something about children being little terrorist germ factories, but the rest is lost in the sound of retching.

 

Bilbo makes a huge pot of peppermint tea, helps a shivering Nori shower off and then into bed—and then back to the bathroom again when the peppermint tea makes a reappearance—gets the kids fed and settled for the night before she collapses on the couch, an arm thrown over her eyes. She’s nearly asleep herself—half-listening for sounds of distress from Nori’s room—when the lock on the front door tumbles and Bilbo blearily lifts her head from the couch cushion just in time to meet Thorin’s penetrating blue gaze as he walks into the living room.

 

“Bilbo,” Thorin says steadily, his hand tightening on the grip of his duffel bag the only outward sign of emotion. Behind him, Dwalin looms like a silent shadow and Bilbo hoists herself upright, stretching out the various kinks in her body.

 

“Your woman’s been puking her guts out all day,” Bilbo says around a yawn and concern floods Dwalin’s expression. Then he’s gone, leaving Bilbo and Thorin alone for the first time in weeks. The silence is tangible, weighing heavily on her shoulders as she stares down at her bare toes, still a little bleary from near-sleep. When he doesn’t move, she looks up to find him staring at her like he's trying to memorize every single little detail about her as if she'll disappear the moment he blinks. 

 

Bilbo opens her mouth to say something, anything when Dwalin comes back out into the living room, rubbing his stubble-covered jaw with a big hand. A ruined moment becomes a catalyst for escape, slipping past Thorin and out the apartment door, wrapping her favorite hoodie around herself as she makes for the roof.

 

The cool night air does little to clear her head and she digs in the pocket of her hoodie for her second favorite vice.

 

“The Arkenstone heist,” unlike last time, there’s no crunch of gravel to announce Thorin’s arrival, just words and Bilbo yelps—like a kicked puppy—in surprise, dropping the cigarette that she’s lit but not actually smoked yet. “Was a thing of beauty,” Bilbo is too busy dancing back from the lit cigarette for the words to register at first, but then they do and she freezes, staring at Thorin who stands in front of the door to the stairwell, powerful arms folded over his chest, a faint smile playing about his mouth. The tension from before has faded from his body and he looks relaxed in a way that he hasn’t for quite a while.

 

“I… thank you?” Bilbo says and then automatically kicks herself for just admitting to committing a felony. Thorin’s lips quirk higher at the corners, his eyes sparkling with mirth. Obviously, her intention in returning the Arkenstone had been to patch things up between the two of them, but compliments on her thieving style hadn’t even made the top twenty when it came to his response.

 

She quickly looks skyward just in case this is all some elaborate set-up.

 

“What are you looking for?” Thorin has moved closer and Bilbo blinks to find him closer, his eyes heated as they drag over her body. She blushes, grateful for the cover of night so he won’t see the red in her cheeks.

 

“Helicopter.” Bilbo murmurs, hoping he’ll understand. One dark eyebrow rises, but he’s smiling and Bilbo is suddenly struck with a sudden case of shyness, staring down at the still burning cigarette.

 

“Because of the Arkenstone job?”

 

“The what job?” playing dumb worked before, but this time it’s flirty rather than feigned ignorance. A finger hooks under her chin, tilting her head up and the expression on Thorin’s face is one of fond exasperation. Bilbo’s breath catches in her chest.

 

“Not as dangerous as the heist in Puerto Vallarta, but beautiful all the same.” His thumb strokes her jaw again, but she doesn’t worry about this turning into the clusterfuck that last time had been. “You _and_ the heist, beautiful.” She’s almost 100% he can feel the heat in her face, can feel it burn down her body.

 

“You’re an Interpol agent. You can’t be pro jewel-thief,” she protests even as one strong arm encircles her waist, pulling her up against his rock-hard body. It takes a massive amount of willpower not to do something embarrassing like drool.

 

“Thorin,” he’s not paying attention, distracted by seeing exactly how much of her waist he can wrap his hands around, which despite her affection for puff pastries, turns out to be a fair amount. Her small size seems to fascinate him and that’s all well and good, but Bilbo’s trying to have a serious conversation and his bedroom eyes and hands on her hips are distracting.

 

“Hey,” she slaps a hand against his chest, trying to ignore how tiny it looks against the broad expanse, but it gets his attention, especially when she wiggles out of his grip, putting space between the two of them.

 

“Uh-uh,” Bilbo tuts when he looks ready to step forward again. “No touching until you give me a damn good reason why this isn’t career suicide… _Thorin_.” The dark-haired man lazily drags his gaze back up her body, sparking all kinds of delicious feelings along her nerve endings, breath quickening in her chest before she can stop herself.

 

“Maybe, my beautiful little burglar,” he all but drawls, eyes dark with lust. “It’s because I no longer work for Interpol.” He says and takes a step forward. Bilbo takes a step back.

 

“Tell me you didn’t quit your job because of me,” because in romantic language, the idea is incredibly sweet and perfect. In reality, it’s bug nuts stupid. Thorin’s mouth twitches like he can read her thoughts.

 

“All right then. I didn’t quit my job because of you, Bilbo. I quit my job because Kíli and Fíli need stability and a real parent and I can’t offer either when I’m constantly halfway around the world.” He moves forward and Bilbo can’t move away, trapped by the naked emotion in his face.

 

“I quit my job because it is no longer something that I enjoy.” His hand curves around her waist, tugs gently and she goes, so absolutely in love with this man that she can’t do anything but lead where he follows.

 

“And I quit my job, Bilbo Baggins because I’m not going to let anything come between me and the woman that I love.” These last words are whispered against her mouth and Bilbo’s reply is lost in the burning press of lips as Thorin finally, _finally_ kisses her. It’s wild and perfect and everything she thought it would be. He looms over her, but she feels protected as if he is a security system and she is the prize inside.

 

“But,” Bilbo manages to get out what feels like hours later, Thorin’s lips leaving a gentle trail down the side of her neck, one of his hands completely intent on wresting her shirt from the waistband of her jeans. “What are you going to do? Thorin? _Thorin_.” She leans back in his grip, forcing him to pay attention or risk dropping her on her ass.

 

“You don’t have a job,” Bilbo says, dangling in his arms like they’re in a an old black and white film scene, the hero dipping the heroine for their big kiss. It strikes her—just for a second, that this gorgeous amazing man wants her, _loves_ her—and she reaches a hand up to cup the side of his face, unable to hold back a silly grin.

 

“Oh, did I forget to mention that part?” Thorin says, the innocent smile completely wrecked by the wicked look in his eyes. She shakes her head in exasperation, trying to force a scowl, but finding it damn near impossible.

 

“Let’s just say,” Thorin murmurs, drawing her back to him again, those wicked lips already brushing against her jaw and back towards her ear. “I’ve got it all worked out.”


	10. Epilogue- Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s difficult to look smug while hanging upside down, but Nori manages it with both style and grace, red hair pulled tightly away from her beautiful face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my god! Done! Maybe now I can focus on my finals! Please enjoy and let me know what you think!

* * *

**Epilogue-** **Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It… not handcuffs)**

It’s difficult to look smug while hanging upside down, but Nori manages it with both style and grace, red hair pulled tightly away from her beautiful face.

 

“Shut up,” all the blood is rushing to Bilbo’s face and she’s losing feeling in her right foot, but she’ll be damned if she’s going to let Nori mock her while they're both stuck in the same predicament. “You agreed to do it.”

 

“And then I remembered halfway down why I hated rappelling,” Nori snorts, tugging at one of the ropes wound around her leg, letting out a little yelp when it suddenly drops her an inch or two. Forty feet below, the beautiful parquet floor of the art gallery is disorienting, swirls of dark wood and blue tile and Bilbo really, really hopes she’s not going to be adding any other colors to it any time soon. Blood can be hell to get out of grout.

 

“That’s because only one person’s supposed to rappel; two people just screw everything up.” Bilbo says, twirling in a little circle as she tries to loosen the cable digging into her ribs. A jerk on the ropes from the darkness above them makes both women shriek then suddenly they’re moving upwards under the thundering power of the winch. Bilbo hits the roof next to the open skylight with a thud and a groan, Nori doing the same on the other side, like something out of a heist comedy. Big hands reach through the opening, the pair with knuckle-tattoos grabbing Bilbo, the unmarked pair grabbing Nori, dragging them both out into the crisp night air.

 

“Trade you,” Dwalin says, holding Bilbo out at arm’s length with ridiculous ease, tangled harness and all and she throws a half-hearted kick at him that misses by a mile. Nori is clinging to Thorin’s arm, trying to kick the nylon ropes off her leg and having exactly zero luck, the fibers clinging to her leggings and boots.

 

Both Thorin and Dwalin look like they're trying hard not to burst into laughter.

 

“So you see, Mr. Beorn,” Bilbo says, dangling from Dwalin’s grip by the scruff of her jacket, intent on professionalism even as a large hand starts to strip coils of rope off her hips and calves. “Even though our entrance was not without errors, there are still ways into your gallery far beyond the average.” The gallery owner, a giant of a man that manages to make Dwalin look small, nods his shaggy head sagely, a small grin playing about his lips as if he too is amused.

 

“We were fine until the winch got stuck,” Nori chimes in, her professional pride in clear need of massaging. “I was aiming for that Da Vinci sketch in the corner.” The last coil of rope drops away and Nori tugs her black shirt down, flipping the mass of red-brown braids out of her face, the beads and coins that Ori has worked into them jingling musically. Anyone else would have looked like an extra from ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’; Nori pulled it off with the natural grace of thief royalty, the Queen of them all. Bilbo has only two beads in her hair at the end of a short braid under the mass of her curls: both the shade of arctic ice.

 

“Probably would have gotten it too. Thorin, there’s a gap in the camera coverage on the northwest corner.” Bilbo says as she kicks away the last section of rope and Dwalin finally puts her feet back firmly on the tarred rooftop. Thorin nods and makes a note on the iPad tucked under his arm. As Dwalin and Nori move away to point out further security shortcomings to the gallery owner, Bilbo presses her arms high over her head and stretches hard, working out kinks that come from not enough time scaling walls and too much time on her knees building Lego towers and coloring pictures of Batman.

 

“Mm, hello,” Thorin presses against her back, dropping a gentle kiss on top of her head, his free hand squeezing her hip with familiarity. “Feeling nostalgic about heists gone by?” She cranes her head up to look at him, noting that it’s been months since she’s seen any kind of tense, strained expression on his face and how absolutely wonderful that is in her book.

 

“Why? You feeling lucky, Agent?” she says, pressing back against him with a little wiggle that sends heat sparking through his eyes. “Feel like you could catch a thief?” His strong arms wrap around her and she leans into his warmth.

 

“Don’t you hear, little burglar?” Thorin leans down to kiss her, soft and teasing. “I’ve already caught one.”


End file.
